


The Love Bug

by ravenpuff1956



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-23 22:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17692580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenpuff1956/pseuds/ravenpuff1956
Summary: Newt's sick. He's been infected. With the love bug. He can't get her off his mind. Tina Goldstein, this magnificent witch...he can't get her off his mind. If only he could get back to New York to see her. If only she'd write back. If only a mysterious new creature wasn't causing trouble. Trouble of a deadly kind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is a story I've been thinking about for a long time. It's a bit fairy-tale, maybe even a bit cliche. But it's going to be very romantic and angsty, it's got some twists and turns and is going to have quite a few chapters so I hope everyone likes it!

19th of Dec, 1926. 

Dear Tina,

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. But I just realised I never told you my address, in case you ever needed to contact me. So here it is. (On the back of the envelope if you didn't see)

The boat ride was uneventful thankfully, no accidental escapees. Pickett doesn’t count, does he, since he never leaves my shoulder? (I’m joking; you can’t arrest me on international waters can you?) I stayed in my cabin mostly anyway. I’ve finally begun the official copy of my manuscript; the one I have at the moment is full of dirt, sketches and anecdotes. Apparently my publisher thinks it’s ‘too full’ or something. I personally could keep writing forever, but he believes just giving the public 'a few interesting pointers' will be enough to get them to love magical creatures. Which is all I’ve ever wanted. If you want I could send you some drafts; that is if you’d like to read them. Your opinion would mean a lot to me. 

It’s nice to be home, though it’s a bit strange not having any plans to travel any time soon. I’m usually only home for a week or two before I flitter off again. This time I’m here for keeps, well until my manuscript gets finished of course. I’m going to have to actually buy groceries. Dougal keeps bringing me mouldy biscuits, and he gets offended when I don’t eat them. He’s taken to stealing my neighbour’s apples, and they have never taken a liking to me. (Something about unusual sounds coming from my basement. I have no idea what that could be).

How are you? Really? After everything. I know Credence meant a lot to you. I hope they’re treating you well at MACUSA. I got the impression that they didn’t treat you well, even before you first tried to save Credence. I hope they are. You’re the only one there that’s worth a damn. You’re the only auror I’ve ever truly liked. And by brother’s one. 

Say hello to Queenie for me. I know she was depressed about Jacob. There’s not much I can say that will make it better, I know, but let her know I’m thinking about her. I’m thinking about you.

Don’t feel any pressure to write back, but I’d be willing to start a correspondence, if you want to that is. I hope to hear from you soon, whatever your reply is. 

From

Newt

\------------------------------------------------

Monday, 17th of July, 1927

“Newt! You’ll never guess!” Bunty squeals.

Newt rubs his eyes blearily, trudging down his basements steps. Usually the bright feathers and loud squawks would be enough to revive him from a bad night’s sleep. He was up till two, desperately hoping, tormenting himself. But a ministry owl had come in the early hours of the morning, rudely knocking on his bedroom window and shaking its head impressively. And it had brought no good tidings. Instead it had brought the worst. Newt’s travel permit has been denied; again. For the third bloody time. He can’t leave the country. He can’t go back to New York. He can’t see Tina Goldstein. Who hasn’t written back for two whole months. 

He greets all his creatures half-heartedly, truly happy to see each one of them, but unable to stop seeing the world without a grey film over the top of it. A dark cloud passing by on a day that was supposed to be full of sunshine. 

At least Bunty’s early, Newt muses. His incredibly enthused assistant is already bustling around his work space, twittering about something. There’s a fresh pot of tea, with his favourite cup, scrambled eggs, toast, jam, marmalade, and a newspaper opened to his favourite page sitting on his desk. Newt ignores all the food, and the newspaper and Bunty’s toothy grin (how does she know he always starts reading on page three?) Instead he goes straight for the cup of tea, which he wearily pours. 

“Good morning, Bunty,” he sighs, taking a small hop onto his desk, observing the morning feeding round. Bunty’s already done half of it. How long has she been here?

“Good morning!” she beams at him. There’s a large bucket of mooncalf pellets swinging between her legs, “did you hear what I said before?”

“No,” Newt says, before downing his steaming tea in one gulp. The scalding sensation that drums down his throat is almost enough to get him to perk up. Almost, “Sorry, I’m a bit mind boggled this morning,” he gives her a weak smile. 

“Oh no!” His assistant cries, her face all soppy, “can I get you anything?” She puts a tentative hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. 

“No, no,” Newt rubs a exhausted hand over his arm, brushing her off, “I’m just tired, what were you saying?” 

Bunty draws herself up to her full height, not very high, puffing out her chest in the clear importance of the moment. 

“The love bugs,” she states proudly, “there’s been another sighting,” She delivers the information so impressively Newt can’t help but lean forward, despite his misgivings. 

“Are you sure?” he tries desperately not to sound too doubtful. 

Normally he’s incredibly enthused about any new creature finding. It could be half ferocious dragon, half roaring lion or living algae and his mouth would practically be salivating, and Newt wouldn’t be able to sit still until he found out everything about it. And he did run into some enormously magical dung beetles on his last trip to Egypt. 

This new creature however, this mysterious bug. Officially called Aphrodite’s beetle, but has quite recently required the nick-name of the ‘Love bug’. A perfectly fine creature in practice, a pretty little thing, with six legs, and a curious nature. However, the apparent side effects of its bite… it just seems far too cliché, far too fairy tale, even for Newt’s gargantuan understanding about what creatures are capable of. It’s probably been made up by some fanciable witch or a mischievous mermaid he thinks disdainfully. Or worse something made up by Grindlewald’s followers to attract him out of the country and into their hands. The rumours just can’t be real. Surely they can’t exist.

“Yes,” Bunty’s eyes are as big as big balls, pleading with him to believe her, “a giant crate full was spotted off the coast of France, beetles with exactly the same spirals as the ones seen in Greece,” 

Newt pauses. If this is true, either way innocent creatures are being caged up and transported against their will. He can’t have that, magical or none magical. 

“How’d you find out?” he asks his assistant, feeling for the first time the pangs of curiosity. 

“It was in yesterday’s newspaper, the French one,” Bunty points to his work bench, where another paper lies open. Newt leaps off the desk and makes his way towards it, Bunty right at his heels. 

“My roommates still learning how to speak French,” she explains, going the long way round the bench, round the end that doesn’t contain his case, “she gets it delivered each morning to practice,” she bangs her bucket down, flicking through the paper to find the right page.

Newt places his hands on the desk, finally taking his morning glance at Tina. He shakes his head, charmed, at what he finds. Her photograph, instead of smiling sweetly at him, is trying her best to peer over at the French papers headline. He can’t help the silly smile that grows on his face, as Tina’s tiny cheeks blow out in frustration. The sides of his case are preventing her from getting a proper look.

“Ah Newt?” Bunty breaks his spell-shocked reverie, her tone suddenly blunted from her previous eagerness, “the newspaper?” 

Newt reluctantly tears his gaze away from a slightly miffed, though still beautiful Tina, to place his full attention on open paper. 

The photo emblazoned on the articles page was a close up photo of a beetle, scuttling down a dock, a large steamer puffing away in the background. Newt studies the creature intently. It perfectly resembles the description he’d been given. Three small beady eyes that blink out at the sea. Two dark petal shaped wings that he’s sure, if the picture could’ve been printed in colour, would be blood red. Small dots down its back, drawn in a perfect spiral, like a single strand of DNA. And most importantly, two deadly looking fangs, curling dangerously over its bottom lip. 

“What a magnificent creature,” Newt breathes, his nose almost an inch away from the beast.

“Yes,” Bunty replies dreamily, one of her fingers accidentally brushing his own. 

He leans back a little, scanning the words perfunctorily. He’s never been good at French, despite his mother’s lessons and Leta’s heritage. A few words pop out at him, but not enough. The only thing Newt can tell from a few choice adjectives, is that the public is frightened. And from the date, that the paper was printed yesterday. 

“Did anyone die?” he asks seriously, tearing out the photo with deliberate strokes, pinning it up next to Tina with his wand. 

“No, but about ten were affected,” Bunty says earnestly, taking the remnants of the paper back from him, “Luckily the, ah, ‘treatment’ was successful,”

Newt scoffs, shaking his head disbelievingly. He begins to pace, round and round his work space, Pickett squeaking consolingly on his shoulder. Something begins to bubble in his stomach; anxiety mixed with dread. It’s bad enough people almost died. But for someone to collect hundreds, thousands perhaps of creatures against their will. Newt’s heart patters at what those more innocent beetles could be forced to do. Bunty is watching his rotations a concerned frown on her face. 

“And they’re sure the cure is ‘true loves kiss’?” he asks brusquely, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Bunty clutches the newspaper tight against her. 

“That’s what all the reports are saying,” she stutters, clearly taken back by his pushy manner, “though I don’t think it has to be ‘true love’, just the person you’re in love with,” she flutters her eyelashes up at him.

“Incredible. Amazing. Unbelievable,” Newt murmurs, dumbfounded, leaning his elbows hard on the table, looking in disbelief up at moving picture sat up in his case. 

He takes in the beautiful beetle. it’s dainty wings fluttering a little in the breeze, gazing directly at the camera without a care in the world. It’s a gorgeous beast. Newt resists the urge to attempt to reach into the picture, carefully pick it up and draw it back out to properly examine it. If only he wasn’t thirty and already knew it was impossible. Was it a certain toxin? Or a mucus? How is it, that when this creature bites someone, unless that person is kissed by the person they love, they die? 

A pair of sensible shoes wander into the frame. Hair whipping around her face, she breathes in deeply clearly loving the fresh sea air.

“Don’t get bitten,” he warns, as she crouches beside the bug, studying it from a small distance.

Tina rolls her eyes to the point where it must’ve hurt. She moves her fingers in the shape of a box, somewhat sarcastically. Newt huffs a little. 

“Yes, I know you’re only a photograph,” he frowns at her. 

They have a miniature stare off, until her dark eyes begin soften round the edges, and she begins to laugh and he can’t help but join in. 

“Is there anything else? Do you think?” He asks her chuckling.

Tina sits back on her heels, and clucks her tongue, looking around solemnly, taking in her surroundings. Newt smiles at her dopily. While he would’ve gone straight for examining the creature, she is taking in everything else. They’d make a good team, if she ever came out in the field with him. He wouldn’t have gotten caught by those poachers in Africa if she was with him. Merlin, he misses her. Finally, Tina gasps silently, pointing firmly up at the ship. Newt claps his hands together. 

“Of course,” he breathes, “you’re bloody brilliant,” Tina ducks her head, blushing. If she was here, he would’ve kissed her. 

“Bunty, where was the ship headed?” he turns to his assistant. 

Bunty is staring, eyes glazed at his case. There seems to be a deep seated discontent in her features, and she follows Tina’s movement dimly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks her gently, smiling awkwardly. 

“Fine,” she says, shaking her head harshly from side to side, her two buns wobbling. She sounds like she’s just started recovering from a head cold, “I’m fine, what were you saying?”

Bunty smiles up at him, but there’s a slightly tired look to it, as if it took some effort. Newt resolves himself to give her weekends off, or at least make her leave at seven instead of eight. Clearly she needs more sleep. 

“The ship?” he asks her gently, as if speaking to the baby nifflers, “did the article say where it was taking the bugs?”

“Apparently it was an unknown buyer,” Bunty ties her hands behind her back wincing, “all the authorities know is that it left port last night, going god knows where,” Newt swears under his breath. That doesn’t sound good, he bites down on his tongue. That doesn’t sound good at all. 

“Well,” he says decisively, massaging his forehead, “we’ll finish up here, the I’ll go into work and see what I can find out,” 

“But you never go into work,” Bunty says hesitatingly.

“I know,” Newt pushes himself up off the table, blowing out a painful breath.

Merlin he hates the ministry and everything it stands for. He’s only gone in once this month, and it was for his travel permit application, he didn't even make it to his office. But Theseus may have heard something, especially if Newt’s suspicions are correct, and he’ll definitely be there. His brother seems to live, eat and breathe the place lately, if his letter’s aren’t exaggerating. Even with Leta the way she is isn't stopping him. 

“But I think I’ll have to, otherwise Merlin knows what could happen,” he shakes his head tiredly. 

“Okay then,” Bunty says nervously, picking up her mooncalf pellet bucket again. 

“I’ll start with the kelpie and work round,” Newt says, brushing his fears to the back of his mind, wiping his hands on his pants. 

“I’ll meet you in the middle,” she smiling toothily at him, swinging her bucket between her legs, twisting a piece of runaway hair between her fingers. 

Newt smiles back and nods, once, twice, three times. Bunty stays put, her cheeks slightly pink. Slowly, he awkwardly brushes passes her, quietly bemused on why she’s still standing there. Half done they made be, but half still means about twenty creatures. Plus the baby nifflers. Newt swiftly walks over to the ice box, relishing in the satisfying cold wind that brushes over his face. He finally hears Bunty’s hurried steps begin to move away, and feels his shoulders unconsciously relax. 

Newt likes Bunty. He really does. Her love and passion for creatures is something he’s admired since his Hogwarts days. And she’s a fellow Hufflepuff. However, she’s always been a bit clingy and although he has finally admitted to himself he’s lonely, and needs people, (preferably one person). But he also knows he prefers gentle togetherness. Company that’s like a shadow; close, but quiet. Someone that may disappear in a certain light, but you can always be safe in the knowledge that they're there. Not his assistant’s version of company, which seems to be sticking to him like a plaster. He’s beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic in her presence. Another thought that should be pressed back into the mind. It’s getting quite crowded back there.

Newt begins to rummage, searching for the kelpie’s, Arthur’s, breakfast of deer carcass. 

Whoosh. Newt feels a rush of air over his ears, the type that comes from wings. An owl must be sweeping over his head, nothing to worry about. Or Charles, his augurey, might have an upset stomach again. Or Martha and Maisy, the baby hippogriffs he’s supposed to deliver to his mother next week have escaped again. Bugger.

“Bunty,” he calls, still rearranging things in the freezer. The meat is caught under a pile of Elsie’s stool samples, and he can’t get it loose. But there is no cheery reply from his assistant, only an insistent squawk.

“Bunty!” Newt yells, finally pull out Arthur’s bloody breakfast from the frozen cave and banging it down on the work bench. A work bench which a ministry owl has decided to perch on. 

The owl has a purple ministry letter clutched between its claws. A crimson seal is holding it together. Emergency status. Newt can see that the paper has been hastily folded, and messily scribbled on. 

Heart in his mouth, he reaches out a shaky hand and takes it off the owl, causing it's leg to tremble. Newt absentmindedly throws him a treat, while he rips the letter open. He reads it the first time quickly. The second time slowly. And a third with a strong sense of panic. 

“Sorry, one of the baby niffler’s escaped,” Bunty scampers down the stairs, a new stain on the petticoat. 

Newt is in the process of closing his case, snapping the clasps with urgency. He summons his coat, and it smashes into his Bunty’s back in the process of returning to its master. She hands it too him, and Newt and he hastily grabs it off her, his arm already half way up its sleeve before it leaves her fingers. 

“Merlin Newt, what’s the matter?” Bunty cries anxiously. Newt’s managed to put on his coat inside out, and this mishap does nothing for his rising blood pressure. He feels like a boiling kettle, about to blow. Everything is bubbling just under the surface. 

“I’ve got to get to the ministry,” he stammers, sweeping his case into his hand, “could you please stay here and look after everyone?” Newt begins to climb the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

“Yes, of course,” Bunty calls up after him, her tone a weird mix of worried and gratified, “but why now? Surely we should finish the feeding?” 

Newt swallows tightly, his mouth strangely dry and scratchy. 

“I’ve just got a letter from the ministry,” Newt croaks, his palms clammy, “apparently a witch has been taken ill,” he takes a deep breath steadying himself. Pickett strokes his collar, his tiny movement comforting, but his leafy hands tickling his neck, “she’s been bitten by a bright red beetle,”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt appears into the ministry of magic surrounded by a crowd of people. Why has everyone been kicked out of their offices? Who is this old friend of Theseus's? And who is the raven-haired witch collapsed on the floor?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> I'm so glad everyone liked the first one. This second chapter has resolves some drama and brings some more so I hope everyone enjoys!

30th Dec, 1926

Dear Newt,

Of course I would like to keep in touch. There is nothing I would like more. Could you please, let me know what treats your owl likes? He must have extremely exotic tastes; Queenie and I have tried all the normal foods and nothing. I’ve given him a bucket of pats in consolation. 

I’m happy that there were no accidental mishaps on your way home. Though even if there was, you’re right, I’m not allowed to arrest you over international waters. Or anyone else for that matter. I do hope none of your creatures got sea-sick. Can creatures get sea-sick? I’m afraid you might get bored of my letters, as most of them will be filled of questions like these. You’ll probably think they’re simple, but I hope you don’t mind answering. I would love to read any of your drafts by the way. I know they’ll all brilliant. 

It must have been strange after being away all that time, deciding to stay put. I can’t imagine you in a house, not really. Unless your home looks like the inside of your case, and you’re surrounded by wildlife. Although it sounds like you have ‘something’ down in your basement, which I hope was created according to ministry guidelines (Kidding! Kind of. Hint from someone who knows; you’re a lot less likely to be investigated if you’re not actually doing anything illegal) 

I can’t tell what’s worse, the fact that you’ve had to eat mould, or that Dougal’s having to bring you meals! Mercy Lewis, please feed yourself, properly and without your demiguise’s help. As someone who would also miss meals without the love and kitchen skills of my sister, can I suggest an alarm clock? Or perhaps you could put a clock in your workspace that climes the hour? 

To answer your questions about me. I’m…okay. Surviving at least. I keep seeing Credence in my sleep, his arms reaching out for me, but I always wake up before I can get to him. I just wish…but it’s too late for that know. Work is better. I still can’t thank you enough for getting my job back, it feels like I’ve regained a missing piece of me. Everyone’s treating me a little better. They’re still distant, but to be honest I never really had a friend among them except for Graves, and we still can’t find him. Though some of the new recruits are nicer. Queenie says it’s because they finally see that they were wrong, and I was right, but I don’t think so. I just rub people the wrong way.

I know MACUSA feels bad for themselves though. I know because they printed a newspaper article about me if you can believe it. I’ve enclosed it here, in case you feel like getting mad (I’m mentioned twice, you’re mention thrice, Grindlewald’s mentioned about thirty times and Credrence zero). Please ignore my photo, Queenie didn’t let me rip it out. 

Queenie wants to leave her own message for you on the back. To be honest I’m beginning to get worried for her. All she does is lately is bake. I know she’s pining, and know I can do nothing about it. Well I know one thing that could be done about it. But she’s my baby sister, and I can’t see her imprisoned Newt, I just can’t. Even for such a great man like Jacob. If there’s anything you could possibly say to help? I know I’m putting you on a spot a little, but she can read my thoughts and I don’t think she’s always happy with what she sees. 

Sorry for such a sombre end to this letter. I hope you have a happy new year, and I hope to hear from you soon.

From,

Tina. 

Hi Sweetie,

Thanks so much for your wishes. I just miss Jacob so much, you know? Though a little birdie told me a Mr Kowalski has just bought quite a sizable lot. Would you happen to know anything about that Mr Scamander? Don’t worry I won’t tell Teenie, I wouldn’t want you to get in her bad books. And I definitely won’t tell you, that she when she received your letter she practically jumped for joy, read it three times, then walked round with a silly smile on her face of at least a week. I didn’t say a word, I promised her I wouldn’t. (She also bought three types of owl treats and four different types berries for your owl to spit out. What are you feeding that bird?) Anyway, I also hope to hear about you soon, very soon Newt mind you. Don’t make me send you a howler, I haven’t seen my sister this happy in years. 

Love Queenie. 

 

Monday, 17th of July, 1927. 

The ministry of magic atrium is bustling with activity. Newt steps out of the fireplace, brushing vibrant green soot off him in disbelief, clutching his case closer to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if the building was aching with the amount of people in it. The floor almost seems to bend under their weight. Witches and wizards are clustered together, in groups of almost twenty. There’s a quiet hum in the air, the sound of hundreds of people whispering all at once. Newt almost steps back into the grate, the intense amount of people making him feel rather ill. But alas. 

“Mr Scamander?” a squeaky voice calls up to him from his knee. 

“Yes, hello,” Newt greets the stern house-elf apprehensively. The creature’s pillow case is starched to perfection, and its tiny foot is tapping rudely. Yet it’s pointy ears are slightly droopy, like a sad rabbit, and he can’t help the tense line that appears in his shoulders.

“Would you please come with me?” it says, extending a bird like hand, and Newt rushes to comply with its wishes. 

The crowds part like the red sea as they pass. Newt ducks his head, anxiety crackling across his skull. (This is why he never comes to work. He now needs a shoulder rub and an aspirin. Tina would probably like to give him a shoulder rub. No Newton). Ever since his book was published in May, people have been hanging onto him like a bad smell. He can’t go into Diagon Alley without being jumped on, and he’s taken to going to muggle pubs to avoid his ‘fans’ while having a pint. 

Newt doesn’t mind the kids, children who ask him shyly for his autograph, then excitedly explain their favourite creature with shining eyes. In fact, he doesn’t mind at all. But the adults, especially women, seem to cling to him, ask him out for dinner, offer him Quidditch match tickets. Even though they’d never spoken to him at Hogwarts, or in the ten years he’s worked at the ministry. He hates it. It's like a fuzzy taste on his tongue, something caught in his teeth that no amount of tooth-brushing will fix. 

In the corner of his eye Newt catches a blonde woman in a gaudy hot pink hat, and too much lipstick, reach out arm, clearly going to pat him on the shoulder. He unconsciously moves closer to the house-elf, catching it’s heel with his shoe. 

“Yes?” the creature says abrasively, while Newt stutters apologies. 

“It’s just,” Newt searches for something to say, and almost crashes into a small bunch of new employees from the goblin liaison office. Who right at this minute should be fetching cups of tea for callous goblins who are not going to drink it, not gossiping downstairs. 

“Forgive me, but why are so many people down here?” he asks it curiously, “shouldn’t everyone be at work?” 

If possible the house-elves ears drop even further, almost brushing its shoulders. It sidles up to Newt, twisting its toga anxiously between its slender finger tips.

“No one will say,” it whispers, it’s voice like a leaf whistling through a strong breeze, “but suddenly every department had to empty out,”

“Every department?” Newt breathes out incredulously, and the creature nods dumbly. 

“All except the department of international magical co-operation,” it confirms, pulling softly on his pant leg, directing him to an elevator, “that’s where I’ve been directed to take you,” 

“But why, why has everything been shut down?” he asks the trembling house-elf. 

It puts a finger to its lips, practically pushing him through the elevator doors. Newt follows the miniature army major like a loyal private, waiting for the doors to slam close. Finally, the machine rattles to life, jolting them backwards the upwards. 

“Auror business officially,” the creature turns to him, eyes shaking fearfully, “but everyone says, that is, the rumour is…” it’s bottom lip wobbles tremendously. 

“Grindlewald,” Newt states, his insides snapping like frozen branches on a snowy day. The house-elf nods wretchedly, as the elevator slows to a stop.

“Are you the magix-zoologie person?” A loud voice shouts. 

Newt slowly steps into floor, his feet as heavy as lead his mind racing. The fifth floor is equally as crowded, except all the people are crowded around one dark haired witch, who has collapsed on the floor. One man, in a dark blue suit, is frantically waving him over, his face etched with worry. 

“Good luck, Mr Scamander,” the creature says quietly as the elevators doors swing shut. 

Newt watches its pointy nose slowly disappear, swaying a little. Grindlewald. Grindlewald. The man who almost killed him last year. Could it be possible that he’s the secret buyer? Could it be possible that he’s escaped? Almost immediately his mind flicks to Tina. The two of him defied him last year. Surely if Grindlewald broke out of MACUSA’s defences wouldn’t she be the first one he targeted? Did he wrap her in his web, like a giant spider? Using his tricks and traps to draw her into a trap to then devoured her. Has the brilliant light that shines so bright in her eyes been extinguished forever? Newt’s hands shake with fear, and he grips the sides on his coat to try to control then, tie them down. Is that why she hasn’t been answering his letters? Not because she’s finally realised he’s annoying, or because he made a stupid, stupid mistake. But because she’s been killed or even worse kidnapped by Grindlewald’s followers?

“Ah excuse me,” a firm hand clasps down on his shoulder, “but are you Newt Scamander?” 

Newt turns blankly, to find the man who was waving at him before standing before him. He’s a confident man, Newt can tell. The way he holds himself, proud, sure, back straight, one hand comfortably sitting in his pocket. A nice one, his kind smile towards him, yet his eyes are still filled with worry for the woman lying on the ground. He controls the room. People look to him, like they look to Theseus; with friendship, with confidence. Newt feels like a mouse next to him. A small ginger mouse ready to scuttle into a hole. 

“Excuse me?” the man says again, and finally Newt picks up on the strange lilt of his accent. 

“You’re American,” he says, instead of answering his question. 

“Yes,” he man says, a bemused eyebrow raised, “is that going to prevent you helping us?” 

“No,” Newt says hastily, shaking his head, “no, of course not, I’m here to help,”

“Thank goodness, we have no idea what to do,” the man rubs the back of his head, abashedly, “my fiancé would be more use in this situation, she’d never admit it, but she’s read your book about a hundred times,” he smiles broadly, slapping him on the back like they’ve been friends for years.

Newt feels all the bones in his body rattle. The American is a few inches taller than him, and more broad shouldered and almost bursting at the seams with muscle. His hair is dark coloured, set into an elaborate wave on top of his head, and his suit is well pressed. Newt’s fringe keeps falling into his eyes, and there’s a bite mark on his new grey coat where Elsie took a nibble out of it. They’re about as different as noon and night. 

“That’s nice,” Newt nods awkwardly, and holds out his hand, and the other man takes it in a bear like grip, “Newt Scamander,”

“Achilles’ Tolliver,” Mr Tolliver’s hand shake is strong and Newt feels his fingers crack, “your brother has told me a lot about you,” 

‘Great’ Newt thinks sarcastically, ‘that’s all I need’. This man’s an auror and he knows at least one embarrassing story about me. He narrows his eyes, trying to discern what is hidden behind Achilles’ charming smile. Did Theseus tell him about the hippogriff fiasco of 1903 or the birthday extravaganza of 1906. Then again does it really matter? In either story he ends up naked and covered in dung. 

The woman on the ground moans extravagantly, and Newt shakes himself out of embarrassing memories. 

“Did you catch the creature that did it?” He asks Achilles’ firmly, “a little red bug, with spirals down it’s back and a curious personally,” 

“Ah, we did,” the American says smiling sheepishly, pointing across the room to where a clear container sits upside down, trapping a small red dot. 

“Great, can I see it?” Newt says, taking a step towards the beetle in its cage.  
Achilles’ hand reaches out and he grabs his arm firmly, halting him in his tracks. 

“Would you mind dealing with Celia first?” he says pointing to the woman on the floor, who’s now rolling backwards and forwards moaning. 

The woman, Celia, seems to be almost revelling in the crowd, playing up on their gasps and concerned exclamations. Although he can’t deny the woman looks sick. Her long black hair has fallen out of her bun and is sticking messily to her sweaty forehead. Her skin looks pale and clammy, and purple spots are standing out on her neck, hands and ankles. 

“It was just a slight ache until she heard what bit her,” Achilles’ whispers darkly into Newt’s ear, “now she’s yelling the place down like she’s about to die,” 

Newt considers his patients condition. So it’s clear when bitten by the ‘love bug’ you receive an illness that kills you, you don’t just drop dead. But how long does the illness last? Are there anymore oncoming symptoms yet to present themselves? Is there possibly a concoction Newt could whip up to length life, that is not a loved ones’ lips? 

Suddenly all the eyes on him feel less intruding and more accusatory. Newt begins to feel a nervous churn in his stomach, like he’s just been put through the washing machine. Everyone from the lowly payed interns to the ministry of magic is going to expect him to have the answer. A solution. Especially now, after the publication and success from his book. He looks at the motionless bug, that’s huddling under its jail cell, for the first time feeling a tinge of fear. Please Merlin, let him be wrong. Let this be the only one. 

“She’s not going to die,” Achilles’ says hesitantly, “Right, Mr Scamander?”

“Not imminently,” Newt mumbles, moving closer to the wailing Celia. 

“Oh my heart, it hurts so bad, oh dear, I do believe I’m dying,” she cries in a thick southern accent, clutching at her chest desperately. Her friends coo around her like baby birds, clasping her hands and massaging her shoulders, “Achilles! You said you’d get my Jeremy! Where is my Jeremy!” 

She looks around Newt and Achilles’ wildly, as if expecting another man to be crouching down behind them. As no man pops out to her awaiting arms, the tear stained Celia goes into a deep sulk, her fat bottom lip sticking out childishly. Newt observes this with slight distain, as she is at least as old as he is. However, the bright diamond ring glittering on her finger causes him to somewhat rejoice. 

“Jeremy?” Newt asks her quietly, “who is Jeremy?”

“My husband,” Celia spits, her face slowly turning puce as she glares at him, “who the hell are you?” 

“Celia,” Achilles’ says sternly, his friendly expression narrowing, “this is Mr Scamander, he’s here to help,”

“By talking about my bally love life. I think not,” Celia scoffs, one finely picked eyebrow raised cruelly. 

Newt almost immediately classes her in beast terms. Fourth grade. Approach with care and caution or you may get bitten.

“Do you love you husband?” Newt asks nervously. He can hear Achilles’ take a sharp intake of breath, and steps a minuscule step backwards as Celia transforms into a hysterical saber-tooth tiger. 

“Of course I do, don’t be stupid!” she yells, burying her head in her hands. She blows her nose like a foghorn on her sleeve and almost five people offer her a tissue. 

Newt turns to Achilles, who looks both stricken and amused (Although more amused than stricken). 

“Could you find this, Jeremy, person for me please Mr Tolliver?” he asks the American hastily, “Quickly?” 

“I’m on it,” Achilles’ says, flashing him a handsome smile, before swiftly walking out of the room. 

Preferring to leave the sobbing Celia to her friends, Newt walks gladly away and over to the table where the love bug is kept. He sets down his case quickly, flicking it open, ready to give the beetle a new home away from the dangers of the outside world. 

Tina has managed to go to sleep on the dock, and she seems to be snoring peacefully. Her picture was simply smiling when he first received it, in her letter so many months ago. It was a beautiful photo of her, Newt thinks smiling softly. Someone had clearly managed to capture her at happy moment, a free moment.  
He didn’t remember reaching for the scissors, but suddenly there she was. Pinned up in his case, always in sight, always within his reach. Newt would work and talk, and Tina would sit and smile. It was like she was there, almost (but not quite, not at all really). He’d even begun talking for her, reciting the story of his day, his creature’s exploits. All the things he could never possibly send in a letter. 

That he liked the way she smelled and could she possibly send him a handkerchief doused in her sent. That he had to be carried out of the pub by his brother the night he realised he couldn’t remember the sound of her voice again. That he’d been best man at the wedding of his brother and a woman he’d been in love with for ten years. But instead of it being the worst night of his life, all he could think about the entire ceremony is how much he wished she was on his arm. Sat next to him on the table as he made his toast, in his arms as they slow danced long after the bride and groom had left. And Theseus would joke about them being next, then Tina would hex his brother and Newt would laugh delightedly, a deep blush staining his cheeks. But yet they’d turn to each other, silly grins on their faces, and Newt would lean in, and kiss her sweetly, then deeply. She would sigh into his mouth, and then he would take her on a tour of the ‘world famous Scamander manor’ and somehow they’d get lost on the way to the library. 

After Tina stopped writing, Newt had started staying up far too late, with only her old letters and a cup of tea infused with generous amount of brandy for company. He’d even read her old words out loud, as if trying to re-create the time when she hadn't finally seen him has everyone else does. Annoying. Then her picture had begun to change. A slight eyebrow raise in response to his idea of giving the baby niffler’s treats after tea time. A small laugh after a particularly dry comment about the kelpie’s antics. And slowly, surely, the photo had become her. Like the portraits in Hogwarts’s halls, except not even Tina’s picture had managed to speak out loud yet. Newt knew in his heart it was unhealthy. To talk to this apparition as if she was the real, a living breathing woman, when actual Tina wasn’t even talking to him. But he can’t help it. He’s hopeless when it comes to her. 

The love bug in the photograph has crept under her nose, snuggling down near her chin. Tina sneezes, her nose scrunching up adorably. Newt smiles at them dopily, before turning to the one sitting on the bench in front of him. The strangely motionless bug. 

Newt quickly crouches down, his coat flying out behind him, studying the creature at eye level. It’s three dark eyes stare back, unblinking. Heart thumping, the magizoologist whips the glass container of the beetle. Nothing, not even a flinch. Jaw clenched tight, Newt still somehow manages to blow softly, and though its wings flutter slightly in the soft breeze, the love bug doesn’t move. It’s dead. That beautiful creature is dead. Hot rage shudders through his body, causing hands to tremble and voice to shake. 

“Who killed it?” Newt asks tremendously, voice sodden with emotion, “who in their right mind did such a thing?” 

One of the woman turns her back on Celia’s distress and glares at him. Her whole face is pointed, her nose, her chin, her eyebrows. Her fiery hair completes the picture, and Newt can’t help but see a shady fox. 

“Achilles’ and I,” she, another American, spits sharply, crossing her arms over her chest, “can’t you see what it did to Celia? I’ve read the papers, she might die,” 

Newt breaths are coming short and fast. How dare she? How dare he? She may have never seen a beast before in her life, but Achilles? The man who greeted him so casually despite the fact he just killed a creature. And didn’t even tell him, warn him. Surely Mr Tolliver must’ve known who he was, what he would think. He was friends with Theseus for Merlin's sake! His fiancé had read is book and sounded like an admirer. Had she never told him how amazing creatures were? Has he ever listened? He’s almost blind with anger. There’s too many words he wants to say, too many passionate speeches on the tip of his tongue that he’s left speechless. His mind burns but he says nothing, instead merely stutters in the foxes face. 

“Look Mr Scamander, I understand you care about these creatures a lot,” she smiles a sickly sweet smile, “but Achilles’ and I are aurors you see, it’s our duty do what we can to protect the public,” 

Newt stares at her blankly, shaking his head in disbelief. Finally, his mouth manages to make words appear. 

“Tina Goldstein’s an auror, and she would never have done such a thing,” he states bluntly, glaring her down. 

The woman actually laughs, a harsh empty thing. 

“No, Goldstein wouldn’t have,” she says peevishly, examining her claw like nails with scorn, “But I wouldn’t want to be a stick in the mud, with a betrayer for a sister,” 

“What?” Newt gapes at her dumbfounded, offended on one accusation and confused on the other, “What are you talking about?”

The fox woman rolls her eyes, and shifts awkwardly in her seat. ‘She’s embarrassed,’ Newt thinks, trying to feel satisfied, batting away the current of anxiety that runs through him, ‘she’s said too much,’. But what did she mean about Queenie? And who would ever say such a thing about Tina? But before he can ask again, or the cruel woman can open her mouth, the door swings open with a bang. 

“Celia! Oh Celia darling!” a muscle bound, blonde hair man, with a magnificent moustache, runs up to his fiancé, gathers her in his arms and kisses her straight on the lips. 

Newt watches in awe as the purple spots that were tattooed on Celia's skin, melt away to nothingness, and her red sweat stained face turn healthy and dry as she falls deeper into her husband’s embrace. The room bursts into excited exclamations, a couple of men swear loudly. The couple break apart, and Celia's face wobbles with delight, happy tears pooling around her collar. 

“Oh it’s a miracle, Jeremey, sweetheart, I was going to die, I just knew it!” Celia sobs, hands rubbing over her clear skin with a reverence. 

“Not on my watch Celia, darling, I wouldn’t let it happen, you know that,” Jeremy booms, kissing her cheek with a loud smack.

Newt looks over at the love bug, it’s six dainty legs askew. He gently cups it into his hands, careful to avoid its sharp fangs, and runs a gentle finger over the spiral running down its back. This bug bit this woman and she got ill. A fever, a heart ache, a purple rash all over her skin. But now, thanks to a simple kiss from her lover, she’s well again. He saw it with his own two eyes. Newt gives the sorry creature a final stroke, before stashing it away, deep inside his pocket. He’s going to have to study it, he’s going to have to find out how the beast works. Newt looks up again to find that Celia and Jeremey kissing as though they were glued together.

“Unbelievable,” Newt whispers incredulously, patting a hand over the pocket which holds the beetle. 

“Yes, it is unbelievable,” a familiar voice curses from beside him, “how bloody hard it is to find you,” 

He jumps up and pins round, to find Leta glaring at him, tapping her foot abrasively. She’s dressed to perfection, as always, in Slytherin green, with a matching felt hat. One hand sits on her hip, the other, the one with two shining rings, sits on her belly, slightly swelled under her skirt. 

“Leta,” Newt says awkwardly, “hello,” 

“Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” his old friends face is like stone, cold with anger, “I checked the leaky cauldron, your house, took about ten laps around the atrium,” 

Newt swallows tightly, and quickly gathers his things, snapping his case up with a crack. 

“Well, I’m here,” he smiles weakly, “you found me,” 

‘What’s he done now?’ He went to their wedding. He finally went to one of their dinner parties, thanks to some more than gentle persuasion from his mother. ‘Was it one of their birthdays? An anniversary? Or maybe-’ Leta’s bottom lip wobbles and her eyes suddenly fill with tears. Concerned Newt takes a step forward. 

“It’s Theseus,” she sniffles, her proud façade washing away, “he’s ill, everyone’s ill, Travers sent me to get you,” 

“Ill?” Newt asks alarmed, “how ill? And why does the head of the auror office need to see me?” 

“I’ll explain on the way,” Leta says, reaching out to take a hold of his arm, practically pulling him out the door, “please just come,” 

Newt, heart in his mouth, hurries to obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep making Achilles' an arse and I don't know why. I tried not to and then... Anyway I hope everyone liked it! Next one coming soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Leta has some important explanations, Bunty's room mate makes an appearance and Newt receives a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello back again!  
> Hope everyone enjoyed the last chapter. This one is hopefully answers some more questions, but not all. Unfortunately there isn't much Newtina in this chapter, and the two next ones are going to contain quite a bit of angst. But it's coming don't worry and it's going to be adorable!  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

24th of Feb, 1927

Dear Newt,

I had this entire letter written but then Queenie burst into my room this morning and to ask what I got you. It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me? And a big one too, thirty. Have we ever talked about our ages? I was born in 1901. It’s strange. I always thought, maybe, if we’d known each other when we were young, we would have become friends. But a sixteen year-old wouldn’t have been likely to have made friends with a twelve year-old would they? It’s strange how getting older changes things, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve added a present. An unframed, poorly developed, present. I’m not sure if it is Frank, but he seemed incredibly happy to see me. That’s why the photo is so blurry, he kept flying round me! I know this will arrive too late, so I hope you had a wonderful day. Have a drink on me, okay?

From,  
Tina. 

28th of Feb, 1927. 12:43pm.  
Instant memo to Porpentina Goldstein. MACUSA, auror offices, desk 42. Status: extremely urgent. 

Tina. STOP. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble just for me. STOP. How on earth did you manage to get to Arizona? STOP. Your present was the best I have received in a long time. STOP. I’ve framed Frank properly, and he’s been put in a place of honour beside my bed. STOP. He looks so happy don’t you think? STOP We should go visit him when I come back to New York. STOP. Newt. STOP. P.S. when is your birthday? STOP.

28th of Feb, 1927. 1:17pm. 

Instant memo to Newton Scamander. Ministry of Magic, Department for the regulation and control of magical creatures, magizoology office. Status: extremely urgent. 

Newt. STOP. Don’t worry about it. STOP. Red owed me a favour. STOP. Took a portkey over and back. STOP. I’m glad it was Frank, he looked very well. STOP. He’s beautiful. STOP. Glad to hear you liked it. STOP. But could we please only use this method of communications in emergencies? STOP. The president thought you were an urgent message from the British ministry about Grindlewald. STOP. Tina. STOP. P.S. 18th of August. STOP.

28th of Feb, 1927. 4:46pm. 

Instant memo to Porpentina Goldstein. MACUSA, auror offices, desk 42. Status: ordinary.  
Tina. STOP. Sorry. STOP. Newt. STOP.

28th of Feb, 1927. 5:01pm.

Instant memo to Newton Scamander. Ministry of Magic, Department for the regulation and control of magical creatures, magizoology office. Status: Extremely urgent.  
Newt. STOP. Please don’t be sorry. STOP. I always want to hear from you. STOP. Tina. STOP. 

Monday, 17th of July, 1927.

Leta leads Newt through the bowels of the ministry, like a dog on a very short leash. Her heels clack smartly on the tiled floor. She keeps a fast pace and they practically fly to the auror department. Leta chatters the whole time, not leaving room for Newt to ask questions or even agree. Her voice has returned to steel and she’s greets practically oozing with contempt. Newt follows along dutifully, anxious to reach his brother, concerned about reaching ‘everyone’. 

“It’s Grindlewald, he’s escaped,” Leta says as they stomp up the stairs, their steps just slightly out of synch, “that’s what Traver’s is saying anyway,” 

Newt doesn’t bother with a sharp exclamation, instead he clenches his jaw, teeth grinding together. Bugger. 

“They wanted to put him on trial for his ‘crimes’ or something, the European confederation did anyway,” she gives a small huff, crossing her arms over her chest, “the American President insisted on bringing an American delegation over here, just in case,” 

“American delegation?’ Newt asks, tripping over the top stair, and stumbling a little. 

“We’ve been suffocated by Americans for two weeks Newt,” Leta gives him a small smile, sounding amused, “haven’t you noticed?” 

“Not really,” he says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Well they have,” Leta rolls her eyes, “and half of them joined Theseus’s squad, when Grindlewald did escape, to track him down,” 

They’ve finally reached Level 2, the auror department. The corridors are empty, and there’s a strange smell in the air, a smell Newt last smelt in the war. One of decay, pain and suffering, that infects his brain, making him sick to his stomach. Leta quickly slips past a large wooden door, Newt however lingers. A shining golden label reads ‘conference room’, but someone has spelled an American flag on the door. He can hear faint sounds of crying behind the door, the type of cry that only stops when you’re out of tears. Newt swallows the lemon sized ball of anxiety caught in this throat. He rushes to keep up with Leta’s footsteps. She clearly didn’t even notice his disappearance, and is already half-way through another explanation. 

“-Then I ran into an old friend of Theseus’s, with this other man Jeremy,” she says, hugging her waist, “Mr Tolliver seemed quite distraught so he asked if I could take this Jeremy to you!”

They’ve reached the end of the hall, where two large double doors are flanked by two healers who are arguing passionately. One of their faces is stark white, the other is flushed red, and they’re almost spitting at each other. Newt vaguely picks up words like, ‘dragon pox,’, ‘beetles’, ‘impossible’ and ‘French paper’. They’re so engrossed that they don’t even notice the pair approaching, and Leta has to ‘a-hem’ loudly, to break off their conversation. Both women, one elderly, one young, turn to them, relieved smiles on the faces, interrupting their anger. The elder one steps forward and shakes him firmly by the hand, her fingers gripping his tightly. 

“Mr Scamander, thank Merlin you’re here,” the elder healer says gratefully, “I’m head healer Angela Longbottom, and this is my assistant Mary Bones,” the young woman, with two blonde plaits tied on the top of her head, gives him a small wave.

“Can I go see my husband?” Leta asks, her voice cracking. She’s hugging her rounded stomach protectively and Newt places a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

They had planned to get married next year, June the sixth, and Newt had spent the best part of the year waiting for his invitation so he could gather his nerves to ask Tina to be his plus one. But then, one night in early May, his brother had turned up at his apartment, almost hysterical. It had taken the best half of Newt’s best brandy, and two secret cigarettes for Theseus to calm down enough for him to tell Newt what was wrong. Leta was pregnant, about a month along, and she wanted to keep it. Together the brothers had finished off the Brandy and got started on another bottle. They'd woken the next morning with two pounding headaches, but also with a clear plan of what had to be done. The end of the war may have changed somethings, but short skirts, and a lack of chaperones are not a pregnant woman unmarried. 

And so, on the 27th of May, instead of a large wedding filled with pearls, and flowers, Leta and Theseus got married in a registers office, with Newt and his parents as witnesses. Afterwards they ate at the leaky cauldron, and Leta had on a smile way too big and dopy for a woman who couldn’t drink the champagne. And Theseus couldn’t keep his hands off his new wife’s stomach, her small bulge just hidden by a strategically placed belt. They’d left before desert, both giggling, leaving Newt free to go see his publisher, his book only a week away from being out in stores. 

“Of course dear,” Healer Longbottom says softly, pressing open the door. Newt just catches a glimpse of hospital beds, starched to perfection, “bed all the way at the end and on the right, he’s been asking for you,” 

Leta quickly rushes in, the doors closing like a whiplash behind her. 

“Now Mr Scamander, we’re aware you are familiar with certain types of creature illnesses,” healer Longbottom says returning her professional tone. 

“Yes, I suppose,” Newt says, clutching his briefcase tightly. 

“Well, can you come in and see these cases?” Longbottom asks, clasping her hands together, “we” she shoots a hard glare at Miss Bones, “believe it’s dragon pox,”

“Sure we do,” the assistant mutters under her breath, tapping her foot sharply on the ground. 

Newt watches awkwardly as the two woman have a silent argument, their eyebrows wriggling, eyes flashing. 

“Love bugs, Miss Bones,” healer Longbottom finally says, crossing her arms, face graduating from red to purple, “do not exists, it’s impossible,” 

The magizoologist raises a weak hand, the one grasping his case, brushing against the beetle shaped lump in his pocket. However, he’s not given the chance to be noticed and Miss Bones erupts. She half screams, half moans, bending at the waist. One of her plaits flies free and bounces energetically on her neck and she swings back up. 

“Yes they do!” she cries, agitatedly, “it was in my French newspaper this morning, which my roommate stole!”

‘Ahh’ Newt thinks, a light bulb clicking ‘on’ in his brain. This must be Bunty’s roommate. 

“A ’True loves kiss’ will not heal illnesses,” Healer Longbottom states stubbornly, turning her head away, “especially not Dragon pox, that spreads through contact,”

She turns to Newt, who's conflicted between jumping in or waiting till the right moment reveals itself, raising a haughty eyebrow.

“Don’t worry Mr Scamander,” she says in a motherly tone, “I’ve given all visitors orders, they’re not to touch the patients,”

“We don’t have time for this!” Miss Bones screams, looking half-deranged. Newt predicts she’s about three seconds away from pulling her hair out, “ten people have died already,”

Newt feels as if someone has knocked the breath out of him. All the air leaves his lungs, and he tries to take sips of long air, wheezing a little. 

“People have died?” he croaks out, one hand one his heart. 

“Come on,” Miss Bones says, assuring him through the doors. 

Newt and the two healers walk into a room of chaos. Family members are crying next to different auror’s bedsides. Mothers have to prevent children from touching their fathers, even though clearly they’d like nothing more to wrap their tiny arms around their parent’s neck. The woman lying in the bed closet to him- a woman covered in purple spots and almost sweating through her shirt- is blowing kisses to the man sitting next to her, tears pouring down her cheeks. The man’s hands shake, as if wanting more to take her in her arms, tremoring with the effort not to do so. And right next to the door are ten bulges, lying underneath ten white sheets. 

Miss Bones slowly crouches down, throwing the sheet off the closest person. The man underneath is almost entirely purple, except for his lips which are tinged blue. Despite his frozen limbs, his eyes are still open and haunted with shock. This is the face of a man who didn’t expect to die. 

“See?” Miss Bones says quietly to Newt, so none of the patients or their families can hear, “they all died of hypoxia, lack of oxygen in the body, not the heart problem which comes  
from Dragon pox,” 

Newt kneels down next to her, studying the poor man’s corpse. The elder healer continues to stand, ‘tsking’ every couples of seconds. 

“Their skin is purple instead of green,” Miss Bones explains desperately, “and there’s this,” she grabs the man’s wrist and carefully pulls it up to show him. Newt leans in to find two small bite marks, about as big as a needle head and two centimetres apart. 

Newt quickly fishes the love bug out of his pocket and pushes it up against the mark. Its tiny jaws are a perfect match. 

“Is that?” Miss Bones asks, studying the motionless beetle amazed. 

“Yes,” Newt says, clapping her on the shoulder, “you were right,” the young woman beams wide, and shoots her adviser a look. 

Newt stands and turns to the indignant older healer. 

“Can I see my brother?” he asks firmly.

Healer Longbottom tiredly points to the end of the room, where he can just see Leta, and his mother and father are gathering round a bed. He swiftly makes his way towards them, picking his way through crying kids and worried healers.

“Newton,” Athena Scamander stands and gives him two wet kisses on his cheeks. Newt resists the urge to duck away, unable to shake the feeling of being eight years old again. 

“Mother,” he greets her warmly, giving his father a brisk nod, who in return gives him a quick grimace. That’s about as close as him and Charles Scamander have ever gotten to greeting each other. 

Leta has collapsed in the bedside chair, and has sat her hands on the bed, a wing’s breath away from her Theseus’. They only have eyes for each other, not even noticing his arrival. Her eyes are red rimmed, and his jaw is clenched tight. 

“Kiss,” Newt says quietly to the pair of them, a small soft smile on his face.

“Newt we can’t,” Theseus says roughly, his hands clutching the bedsheets. He has sweat dripping down his nose, “I don’t want to infect her, the baby…” he chokes on his words and Leta’s buries her head in his blankets. 

“Just,” Tears prick at the corner of Newt’s eyes at the couples clear distress, “please just trust me,” 

They both blink at him, Leta bewildered, Theseus almost angry. Newt, deciding his brother is a lost cause, looks desperately at his old best friend, begging her to believe him. He sees her grind her teeth together, eyes flicking between her stomach and the purple spots on Theseus’ fingers. But then she nods firmly, and leans in, kissing her husband firmly on the mouth. Almost instantly his skin becomes clear, his fever breaking on his forehead. Athena claps her hands together delightedly, and Charles lets out rare exclamation, squeezing his wife’s hip. 

Leta leans back, and takes in Theseus’ changed appearance with a gleeful shriek. She quickly climbs up onto the bed and throws herself into his awaiting arms, which he clutches around her tightly. Newt grins at the pair of them, at their little bubble of happiness. 

“How?” his brother mouths over Leta’s head. 

“True loves kiss,” Newt leans back on his heels, “that’s the antidote to the ‘love bug’s poison,”

Theseus shakes his head.

“I didn’t understand a word of that,” he tells Newt drily. The younger Scamander rolls his eyes. 

“You’re well because you love each other,” he explains blandly. 

Theseus smiles widely, whispering something in Leta’s ear that makes them both giggle, and kiss again sweetly, then deeply, rocking together. One of Theseus' hands reaches down to caress the swell beneath Leta's clothing lovingly. 

Newt pecks his beaming mother softly on the head and slowly backs away. He’s left Bunty alone for far too long. She’s probably attempted to feed the kelpie. He brushes past an elated Miss Bones and an astounded Healer Longbottom asking them both to spread the word about how to prevent the illness from spreading. The elder does so, looking as though she’d just been slapped, walking between each bed, a pasted smile on her face. The younger does enthusiastically, twittering about running to tell the Americans, and rushes out the door. Newt follows, but much more tentatively. He doesn’t want to run into Travers. Speaking to him in travel permit meetings is only tolerable, because he’s trying to see Tina again. Without that possible outcome, any exposure to that man just isn’t worth it. 

He creeps past the American door slowly, making sure the floorboards don’t creak beneath him. There seems to be some distressed yelling coming from behind it, something about ‘did you ever love me?’ and ‘what was even the point then?’. If Newt didn’t know any better, he would say it was Achilles’ desperate screams. 

He’s just about to descend the levels steps, to get make his way down to the atrium, when. 

“Scamander!” Travers voice yells from behind him, and Newt winces, turning around unwittingly. 

“Yes?” he asks innocently, pulling uncomfortably at his bow-tie. 

The older man struts up to him, both hands stuck firmly in his pockets and frown fixed on his face. 

“You need to come up with an antidote for this ‘loving beetle’,” Travers orders, pointing rudely at Newt’s chest. 

The magizoologists clenches up like a clam, feeling pure disgust at ‘needing’ to do anything for this auror. 

“I’ve already given my solution,” he says softly, refusing to meet the man’s accusing gaze, “just get their husbands, wives, romantic partners to kiss the victims and they’ll be fine,” 

He moves to make his way down the stairs again, but is stopped by a firm hand on his upper arm. Newt retracts his arm quickly as though burned. He hates most people touching him, but the feeling of someone he truly detests really makes him squirm. Newt looks back, glaring somewhere near the man’s shoulder. Travers holds up his arms in a ‘sorry’ gesture, but still takes a step forward. Newt digs his fingernails into his palms, trying to prevent himself for apparating illegally on ministry grounds. 

“You’ve got to come up with another one,” Travers tells him firmly, hands on hips, “some of our aurors partners are away on other missions, in Germany, in Russia,” 

Newt gulps at this information. He shudders involuntarily. These people might die, just because their lover isn’t in the country. Their skin might slowly turn from normal to purple, and only because of a portkey delay or a forgotten passport. 

“And,” Travers says, apprehensively. His mouth seems caught between needing to gossip, but not wanting to be caught doing so.

“Two Americans, fiancés,” the head auror nods his head back to the door which a loud arguing can still be heard behind, “they just kissed,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “it didn’t work,”

Newt’s mouth falls open in shock. Traver’s nods knowingly. 

“The girl said she didn’t love him,” he admits, “so you see Scamander, we rather need that antidote and quickly. It’ll leave it up to you,” 

The auror walks away quickly, leaving Newt gaping on the top step. He shakes his head, and grips his case close for comfort. ‘What am I going to do?’ he thinks restlessly, 'How am I supposed to make up an antidote before all these people die?'. Teeth chattering with anxiety Newt apparates home. Rules be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone liked it! I don't know if it's clear or not (It's probably not) but I'm not going to get a chance to add an explanation I don't think. If someone doesn't have anyone they love, romantically, and they get bitten they die instantly. That's why those ten people died.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Theseus and Leta have a dinner party, and Achilles' begs Newt for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> This chapter is written by Theseus' pov and there's quite a bit of Leta/Theseus cuteness so I hope everyone enjoys!

2nd of April, 1927.

Dear Tina,

First draft.  
I bet you’re a beautiful dancer. You’re so beautiful in any case. But I can just picture you twirling underneath the magical lights of a ballroom. I just know you would take my breath away. You always take my breath away.   
(Hastily crossed out).

Second draft.  
I bet you’re a fantastic dancer. What kind of dances do they perform in speakeasies? All those fast, head bopping ones I suspect. Perhaps you could teach me when I come back to New York? We could go out together Tina, would you like that? Drink too much champagne, dance a little too close. You pressed dangerously up against me in a smoky club. My hands on your back, your hips, your thighs. Your hot breath in my ear…  
(Quickly balled up, and thrown away). 

Third draft.  
I’ve got records a home. They’re classical, not jazz, but I still think you would like them. You could pour the wine, I could get the lights, then we could dance into the early hours of the morning. Down with the creatures, or upstairs, just by ourselves, swaying softly together in the moonlight... I miss you.   
(Looked at for a long time, but eventually destroyed. Much too scared, much too everything). 

Final draft.  
I bet you’re a great dancer. If Queenie says so, then it must be true. Does that mean you also like music? I favour classical tunes myself, and have a whole lot of records down in my case. I learnt to play the piano in my youth, thanks to my mother. Although I do admit my travelling has made me a bit rusty. Perhaps you’ve danced to a piece I once played? 

Yours Newt. 

8th of April, 1927. 

Dear Newt,

First draft.   
I can just see you playing the piano you know. I do like classical music, although jazz is my first love. Do you play Chopin? I can just see you playing Chopin, poetry for the piano. Your fingers would linger just right on the keys, your eyes would flutter shut. You’d sway, completely lost in the music. I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes off you.   
(Scribbled out).

Second draft.   
You play the piano? Mama tried to teach me, but I could never quite pick it up. I was too impatient. Perhaps you could tutor me? I could sit on your lap, curled up like a kneazle. You would place your fingers on the keys, and I would rest my fingers gently on top of yours. Then you’d play and I’d follow. That is until we got distracted, and one of us would lean in and then…  
(Burned into a small pile of ash by a hot tip of a wand). 

Third draft.  
You play the piano? I imagine you’re wonderful. I can just see you down in your case, playing to your creatures who sit around your feet. Perhaps one day I could sit beside you, helping you turn the pages. Our knees would bump together, our cheeks would almost touch. I’d almost be rocked to sleep by the gentle music… I miss you.  
(Seen by Queenie, had to be thrown away. She said I sounded in love. I am not in love, no, absolutely not).

Final draft.   
I love music. It relaxes me, you know? I’m afraid I’m more partial to jazz, but I can never go past Chopin. He was my mother’s favourite composer. I probably have danced to a piece you have played, especially in the times before the war. Though I bet you’re exaggerating about your ‘rusty’ skills. I imagine your playing is wonderful. Do your creatures enjoy music?

Yours Tina.

Thursday 20th, 1927. 

“Theseus, door!” Leta yells from below. She’s loud enough to almost shake his study’s floor. 

“Coming!” he shouts back, finishing his final sentence with a flourish. 

His large elaborate quill scratches the side of his hand, tickling his skin, causing him to jump. He drops the feather in surprise, and it splatters ink all over his perfect letter. 

“Bugger,” Theseus mumbles, attempting to wipe it up, but only managing to make a bigger mess. ‘I’m going to have to write it again,’ he sighs, disgruntled, rubbing a tired hand over his face. Ever since he’s was bitten by that stupid bug two days ago, he’s been getting regular headaches which tap against his skull, and make all noise and light painful. Thankfully they only seem to come on at night, and with Leta massaging his scalp, his head in her lap, he can survive the pulsing pain. But Theseus can already picture tonight ending way past midnight, with him having to grit his teeth. Especially with what Achilles’ has come to discuss. 

“Damn and blast,” he swears, forcing himself to stand, and pattering down the stairs. 

He promised Travers he’d get out all the letters by tonight. The Love Bug victims. The ones that haven’t been healed, that haven’t got long left. His old school mate Lucy Patterson has already died, to Theseus’ deep regret. Her husband had been in Germany, and was unable to get back in time. Not even the desperate kisses of her friends and family could prevent Lucy’s eyes from closing forever. He’d been told to send out warning letters to all oblivious friends and family members, a gentle warning about their loved one’s inevitable deaths. And as if that task wasn’t difficult enough, now he’s going to have to do it pain filled and sleep deprived. 

Theseus leans tiredly against his dining rooms wooden door, crossing one leg on top of another causally. He ignores the persistent knock at the door, for the much nicer view of his beautiful wife. Leta wafts around the elegant dining table like a fairy. Her dress flutters around her, but still manages to hug her new curves to perfection; ‘both innocent and sexy’, a wonderful combination Theseus thinks with a growl. Leta’s pressed real flowers into her hair and she’s busy lighting candles that are dotted over the made up table set for four daintily, with gentle flicks of her wand. Theseus settles more comfortably against the wood, drinking her in, at the perfect picture she makes. How on earth did he get so lucky?

“Theseus, door!” she yells again, and he winces at her ear piercing tone. 

“Hello sweetheart,” Theseus knocks on the door smartly, causing Leta to jump about a foot in the air. She mocks glares at him- after she regains her breath- and he smiles sweetly at her. 

“Enjoying the view were you?” Leta puts her hands on her hips, swaying her skirts around her teasingly.

Theseus winks at her, and she grins, her tongue poking between her teeth. 

“Go get the door, you idiot,” she shoos him away good-naturally. 

Blowing her a kiss, he wanders down to the front door, vaguely contemplating the strength of the knocker’s knuckles. 

“Are you sure Newt’s coming?“ Leta pokes her head out the door, sounding rather skeptical, “we’ve tried so many times,”

“He bloody better,” Theseus grumbles. 

His little brother will be getting another howler in the mail if he doesn’t. He loves Newt, he does. But only Newt Scamander would hide down in his basement after being given direct orders from Travers himself. Theseus knows he’s been working, working hard. But Merlin can’t he work from his office? People are hungry for answers and he’s shut himself away. Achilles’ had come to Theseus practically begging for help; help he would’ve received if Newt would just step out from his own little world. 

Theseus had sent the newly famous author three stern letters, and two explosive howlers only to receive five firm negative replies. So he’d brought out the big guns. His mother. Theseus may or may not have told Athena Scamander’s about Newt’s insistence at refusing to attend any of his and his wife’s dinner parties. 

So opening his front door he’s not entirely surprised to find Newt bouncing peevishly near his front gate. Achilles’, despite his hopeless appearance, is looking devilishly handsome in a plum cut suit, and gives him a quick hug. There are deep circles under his eyes, but he still manages to give Theseus a winning smile. 

Newt however barely manages to give him a grimace. He’s grown out his stubble, it’s lingering just on the edge of wild, and it scratches against Theseus’s chin as he pulls his brother in for a hug. He tries his best not to notice how Newt’s arms flap uselessly on his sides, despite the deep hurt that digs into him. Theseus can remember a time when time when his little brother would throw himself at him, refusing to let him go even for a second, babbling obsessively about horklumps or unicorns. How many years ago was that now? Twenty? Twenty-five? 

“So glad you could finally make it Newt,” he slaps his brother on the shoulder, “though did you have to bring?” he gestures down to the case swinging between his thighs. 

Newt’s eyebrows furrow together, and he pushes past Theseus hastily. He hears an angry twittering coming from his brother’s top pocket, and sighs defeatedly. Of course he brought a bloody creature to a dinner party. 

Theseus shuts the door, harder than perhaps is necessary, and stalks into the dining room. Achilles’ is busy greeting Leta enthusiastically. Newt has collapsed himself into a chair, and is shedding a piece of bread methodically. Although none of it seems to be reaching his mouth, instead it's pooling on his plate, a tiny mountain of crusts.

“Thank you so much for having me,” Achilles’ says gentlemanly, taking a seat opposite Newt and smiling round the room, “you have a beautiful home,”

“Thank you,” Theseus also takes his seat opposite Leta, “Although I can take none of the credit, it was my very beautiful wife that chose everything,” he smiles lovingly at her and she winds their feet together.

“I let you pick the colour in one room,” Leta says, pretending to be offended, using her wand to pour everyone wine. 

“Yeah, the attic,” Theseus quips, rolling his eyes around at everyone, “trust me it’s her way or the high way,” he winks at her again, and she grins. 

Achilles’ chuckles smoothly. Newt however almost guffaws, his laughter rushing out of him like a bullet leaving a gun. Short and quick, the sound leaving as fast as it came.   
Leta gives him a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Newt refuses to look up at anyone. Instead silently dips his ripped bread into his wine and offers it up to his top pocket, to where a leafy hand reaches out and takes it. For the hundredth time Theseus wonders what went on between them. He can’t remember a single letter that came from Newt from his Hogwarts days, that didn’t contain a story about one ‘Miss Lestrange,’. But then he got expelled and that was the end of that. His little brother went off to war, then ventured round the world, and there wasn’t a mention of a single person in his letters for ten years. Theseus had tried to breach the subject with Leta, but he was yet to receive a satisfactory answer. ‘We fell out,’ somehow doesn’t seem to cover, whatever, they had together. 

“Well,” Achilles’ says tentatively, clearly sensing undeniable tension between the two old school fellows, “you’ve done a bang up job in any case, Leta,”

“Thank you,” she says, her hostess personality smacked back on, “I’ll have to give you the tour later on,” 

Theseus cocks his head. Her eyes are still sad, almost angry. He strokes her ankle, and Leta leans into his touch. Her gaze relaxes and she leans across the table, grasping her hand in hers. 

“We’ve just made up a baby room,” Theseus explains to the men, but not taking his eyes off his wife.

Leta places one hand on her stomach, rubbing it gently. She’s four months along, and beginning to feel him kick. They’re both convinced it’s a boy. Theseus is counting down the weeks till her can begin to feel his child move. They’ve finally found a cot, white painted with a gold trim. Leta has spent the last few weeks picking out pillows, toys and baby clothes to match.

A small sob breaks the pair out of their reverie. Shocked, Theseus looks round. His old war time comrade, Achilles, is sobbing opening, tears dropping with soft pings onto the table top. The married couple start dumbfounded at the man’s spectacle. Newt silently hands the man a handkerchief across the table, which the American takes thankfully, blowing his nose like a trumpet. 

“I’m sorry,” he mops at his eyes, shaking his head rapidly, “I should be more in control of myself,” 

Theseus finds himself at a loss for words, unable to say anything. Unable to comfort his old friend. He’s never seen him loose control like this, not even in the trenches when nerves were often frayed and many a good man cracked under the strain. 

“You’re just reminding me of all the things I might never have,” Achilles, takes a deep, shuddering breath, clearly trying to calm himself. 

“And how is your fiancé?” Leta asks him delicately, trying to sound uplifting. 

“Not well,” Achilles’ admits, eyes miserable, “not well at all, the doctors say it could be any day now,”

The three Brits star round at one another desperately, all completely at a loss of what to say in the presence of this man’s grief. 

“Her skin is almost completely purple,” the American runs a shaky hand over his forehead, “I didn’t want to leave her tonight, but I had to know if there’s any chance,” he leans forward, gazing at Newt imploringly, “any at all,”

“I haven’t, I don’t,” Newt’s voice is as quiet as a mouse. Theseus can’t help but notice that the circles around his little brothers are almost as big as Achilles’, “have you kissed her? Properly?” 

The sound Achilles’ lets out is almost a laugh. It’s an ugly thing full of sadness, anger, confusion and regret. 

“Of course I have,” he spits out tersely, “she says she cares for me but…” he trails off, his face clouded with loss. 

“You love her,” Theseus says softly. 

Achilles’ nods hopelessly. Leta’s fingers tighten around Theseus’, and he squeezes back. This ashen man’s fiancé should be sat next to him, much like they were. Not locked up in bed thanks to the dreaded ‘Love Bug’. ‘If only we could find this other man who loves her, Theseus sighs under his breath hopelessly, “though, of course, he’s probably all the way in New York, much too far away for him to reach her in time,” 

“What’s she like?” Leta asks gently, smiling her sweetest smile at the wreck of the man.

“Strong, loyal, passionate, beautiful,” Achilles’ eyes are overcome with a happy glaze, “she’s a bit, cold I suppose, upfront, but underneath she’s got a heart of gold,”

Leta strokes the top of Theseus’s hand gently, and he smiles dopily at her. 

“We’re just alike you know?” the American says enthusiastically, and Leta nods clearly touched. 

“We were both thunderbirds at Ilvermony, now we’re both aurors, and we are both deeply protective of our younger siblings,” Achilles’ says wondrously, nearly alight with the thought of their similarities. 

Beside him, Newt is shifting in his seat. It’s as if he’s got to go to the bathroom and too afraid to do so. Theseus wills him to stay still, not wanting their guest to feel as if his speech is unwelcome. 

“She’s got siblings then,” Theseus says knowingly, becoming a little more hopeful, “would they have any idea about…who?” Leta kicks him lightly under the table, as his old friend’s face turns from love struck to sober. 

“One sister yes, but, egh,” Achilles’ looks downcast again, “she’s refusing to write to her,” 

“What?” Theseus asks flabbergasted that a woman would refuse a visit from their family when she’s so close to death, “why not?” 

Achilles’ for the first time halts his whirlwind speech. He seems to teeter on the edge of indecision, often opening his mouth only to close it again. 

“I probably shouldn’t say, what her sister did…” Achilles’ finally says hesitatingly, scrunching up his nose in disgust, “Tina still continued to write to her though, despite everything, never got a reply,”

Theseus ignores his brother’s sudden choking fit, focusing all his attention on the reflective man.

“That’s so sad,” Leta says tearfully. 

“So I think she’s afraid of rejection,” Achilles’ admits melancholically, a finger tracing round the rim of his wine glass. 

Suddenly he smiles, a sun breaking out on his face. He gestures to Newt, causing the entire table to turn to him. Theseus is immediately filled with harsh concern, when taking in his brother’s face. It is completely bloodless, his freckles standing out like stars. It’s as though they’ve been drawn on by an orange crayon onto crisp white paper. His lips are moving soundlessly, mouthing something over and over that Theseus can’t quite catch. The leafy thing has crawled up onto his shoulder and is patting his chin consolingly. None of this seems to be noticed by Achilles’ who continues on with his speech confidently. 

“I’ve actually spent the last two days trying to convince her that she should come and meet you,” he grins toothily at Newt’s ghostly features, “Tina absolutely loves you, though she’d never admit it-“

“NO!” Newt cries out suddenly, grasping at the table cloth, causing some of the candles to wobble tremendously. 

There’s a dull sort of silence. The kind where every breath is heard, every sniffle, every hoot from the owls outside. Leta’s wine glass has fallen over, and a steady stream of red is making its way silently along the table cloth. Theseus glares at his little brother, willing his hands to curl off the starched white, willing his eyes to stop cart-wheeling round the room, looking as though they’re going to pop out of his head. 

“Excuse me?” Achilles’ voice is falsely polite. Steel under flowers. 

“I mean, no, what I meant to say, Tina, she can’t, no, love you, no she can’t, I,” Newt stumbles, his face slowly growing red. Achilles’ chest blows up like a blowfish. Theseus begins to feel the first signs of panic; sweaty palms, beating pulse, a vague hope that this all might be a dream. 

“Newton, you don’t even know this woman,” he hisses in his ear. Newt doesn’t even seem to hear him. He’s staring straight ahead, staring at someone who isn’t there. His mouth is opening and closing like a goldfish. 

“Tina wouldn’t, she would never,” he rocks back and forward in his chair almost dementedly. 

“She wouldn’t what?” Achilles’ whispers dangerously, his handsome brows drawing themselves together in rage. 

“She wouldn’t have killed the love bug!” Newt yells, shooting out of his chair, accidentally kicking one of the table legs, making the whole table shudder. 

Theseus’ heart jolts in fear and confusion. The fear settles in his bones, the confusion in his head, making it murky. Leta’s fingers are cold and clammy in his own, her face is strangely empty. She’s staring up at Newt with almost a knowing expression. Achilles’ leans back in his chair with a creak. A single tear rolls down his face. Newt picks up his case deftly and shuffles round the table. 

“I’ll be off then,” he mumbles into his chest, before disappearing so fast Theseus would have thought he had apparated if it wasn’t for the slam of a door. 

The remaining three sit for a second, needing a pause for the last few minutes of their party to catch up with them. Leta’s the first one to move, leaning across the table to kiss Theseus softly on the cheek.

“I’ll run after him,” she says, summoning her coat, “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation Achilles’,” she pats him on the back before also departing. 

Theseus stares into the middle of the table. One of the candles has dripped wax onto the tablecloth, creating a small cream seal on the fabric. He can’t remember ever seeing Newt so angry. He can’t remember him being angry at all really. Sarcastic, irritated, dissatisfied, yes. But he’s never raised his voice, never beat his chest. Achilles’ picks up his full wine glass with a clink and drains it with a flourish. 

“He was right, you know,” he says wearisomely, clumsily pouring himself another.

“What?” Theseus asks him blankly. The American is already half-way thought the second, his throat bobbing skillfully. 

“He was right, Newt, about that stupid bug” Achilles’ settles back down the glass, “Tina yelled at me, said I should’ve never done such a thing,” 

“Oh,” Theseus says stupidly, trying to think of something that might fix his wretched expression.

“Listen Thee, I’d better go as well,” he pushes back his chair, standing up and brushes down his suit.

“You don’t have to,” Theseus tries, but Achilles’ shakes his head.

“No I’d better get back,” he says tensely, refusing to meet his eyes, one hand grasping the hair on the back of his neck tightly, “back to her,”

And Theseus is left alone.   
\---------------------------------------------------------

Theseus settles his head in his hand, sighing loudly. Slippery shame sticks in his throat, making hot rage boil to the surface of his skin. How dare he? How dare Newt act in such a way to a man about to lose his fiancé. What must Achilles’ think? Think of them all? The front door swings open and swings shut again, but no one comes back in to meet him, no one makes a sound. 

Theseus slowly raises himself out of his chair and pokes his head out. Leta stands in their hallway alone, her face switching between a wide grin and a wobbling lip. Bright tears are slipping down her face. 

“Where is he?” Theseus asks quietly, and she quickly wipes her eyes. 

“Home,” she says voice trembling, eyes bright, “I caught him, but then he went home,” 

Theseus huffs, crossing his arms across his chest, clicking his tongue. He feels Leta's eyes on him as he paces back and forth, to the front door back to their stair case and back again. 

“I just can’t believe he-,” Theseus begins, his voice raised, angry. 

“He’s in love, Theseus,” Leta cuts through his passionate speech like a knife, catching him by the arm. 

She could’ve stunned him and he would’ve been less shocked. He can’t remember Newt ever being ‘attracted’ to someone. He never came home spinning tales of conquests, or short time flings found overseas. Theseus always imagined him ending up an old bachelor, alone in the country, content with his creatures and books. 

“Love?” he breaths, staring down at his wife incredulously.

“Yes, Newt told me," Leta presses her fingers into his upper forearm, willing him to believe her, "the woman Achilles' described just reminded him of her that's all",

“But, but,” Theseus stutters. His little brother? In love? 

Leta smiles up him, and he cannot help himself. He inclines his head, bending down to kiss her. She excepts him fervently, wrapping her arms around his neck. They’ve never kissed like this before, so freely, Leta, for the first time, seems to be giving him everything. They part breathless. Theseus dips further, to kiss her cheek, her chin, her neck. 

“Bed,” Leta growls, pulling on his sleeve dragging him up the stairs. 

“Yes,” Theseus buries his nose into the crook of her shoulder, inhaling her sweet sent.   
They stumble up the stairs entwined, past the bathroom, past his study. No, wait damn, “Leta,”

“No” she says, attempting to pull him up the hall, her fingers between his shirt.

“I’ve got to finish a letter,” Theseus attempts to drag himself away unsuccessfully. 

“Tomorrow,“ Leta hums, freeing his tie, “do it tomorrow,” 

“No, no I can’t,” He groans, finally freeing himself, “it’s for one of the Love Bug victims,” 

Leta scowls but eventually lets him go. She sashays teasingly towards their bedroom, hips swaying. 

“Fine,” she calls, not looking back, but beginning to shed her clothes, her delicate dress slipping down her shoulders, “but don’t be long,” 

Theseus blinks. Then he practically runs into his study, whipping a piece of paper out of a draw, and quickly dipping his quills nib. He takes a shuddering breath, attempting to calm his murky mind, to rid himself of the memory of his wife’s naked shoulders. Theseus’ handwriting may be a little shaky, but he still somehow manages to write and send his message, despite the temptation that awaits him.

‘Dear Queenie Goldstein…’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed it! I've never written a story from Theseus' perspective before so I hope it went okay.   
> Look out for the next chapter where there is a love declaration, though perhaps not the one you might think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt comes home full of questions. Surely Achilles' 'Tina' isn't his?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> Hopefully everyone liked the last chapter. This one is rather sad, I shed quite a few tears writing it. But, still hope everyone enjoys!

3rd of June, 1927

Witch Weekly

Newt Scamander marries childhood sweetheart! Is a baby already on the way?- By Gardenia Skeeter.

As many readers might know the world changing book, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, was published last week and has already been bought off the shelves. However little known to the public is that the author, the dashing Newt Scamander, has recently got hitched to childhood friend Leta Lestrange (or as we should say now Scamander). The pair were seen coming out of Diagon Alley’s registry office last week, the fabulous French woman’s arm was circled round the newly famous magizoologist. They were seen later together in the leaky cauldron celebrating their union with a romantic glass of champagne with Newt’s brother, Theseus, and parents. 

I know ladies, I know, devastating news. Another handsome man taken off the market. But don’t worry, I happen to have some other news guaranteed to make you squeal. Our sources believe that the new Mrs Scamander is pregnant! If you look closely at the picture, displayed on page three, surely you can’t help but see the slight hint of a bump hidden carefully under an elaborate belt.? Perhaps as well as hippogriff hoofs, the new couple are also due to enjoy the pitter patter of tiny feet? Join us on pages three, four, five, six and seven where we discuss it all. From the new Mrs Scamander’s past, Mr Scamander’s scandalous adventures, their childhood exploits, plus gossip about their future lodgings and possible baby names. 

9th of June, 1927.

Mr Scamander,

Congratulations. I wish you all the luck in the world.

Tina. 

(A Letter found at the bottom of Miss Goldstein’s desk at MACUSA, covered in dust, unstamped and under an old Witch Weekly magazine.) 

 

Thursday 20th, 1927. 

Newt is soaked to the bone when he finally reaches his townhouse. He knows this because his coat is weighed down with drink, heavy and uncomfortable. However, he cannot feel the heavy drops that have erupted from the sky. So frightening are his thoughts, that nothing else matters. Because it can’t be true, it just can’t. Newt’s slowly climbs his steps, his legs weighed down my invisible strings, like he’s a puppet being forced to walk. 

Someone has stuffed a letter into his letter box. Gingerly he wedges it out. The torrential rain has been pushed sideways by the harsh wind, and the note is one misstep away from being turned into mush. Carefully Newt opens the letter, rather expecting it to be from Travers, another angry spiel about expecting results. 

‘Newt,  
This is Achilles’ and I just wanted to say-‘

Newt refuses to read anymore, his teeth clashing together. He pushes into his home, and stamps down to the basement his mind racing. Because Achilles’ fiancé is called Tina. But it can’t be his Tina, surely. It can’t be the woman whose hair he touched, who he's been writing to for months. No. Because that would mean she’s be on the edge of death. That would mean she has decided to get married to someone else.

Newt screws up the letter in his fist, the soaked letter turning into a pulp. Fear encircles him. Anxiety in the shape of a swarm of bees buzzes around his chest and throat. ‘No, it’s not her,’ he tells himself, firmly, as he’s greeted by his enthusiastic creatures. ‘There must be plenty of MACUSA aurors called Tina, it must be a popular name. It’s just a coincidence that she was a thunderbird, and has one younger sister. Yes, that must be it. A coincidence,’. There’s a sour taste laying in Newt’s mouth as he slams his case down on his work bench. He attempts to read his feeding round, but his sight is blurry at the edges, morphing the words to illegible squiggles. 

Tina is overwhelming his mind, but not the Tina of his memory or dreams that most often come to him. The one that smiles at him, lets him take her into his arms, touch her, kiss her, just be with her. Instead it’s two possible nightmares that circulate round and round Newt’s brain, making him dizzy. Her pearly skin slowly turning purple, starting from her fingers, then crawling up her neck slowly suffocating her. Tina’s dark eyes overcome with pain, reaching out to him to save her from a terrible death. Or somehow even worse; Tina wafting past him in a beautiful white dress. She smiles at Newt just like she did at the docks, one of pure joy, and he falls even further. But she’s not walking towards him, no. She’s walking to the end of the aisle where another man stands. Achilles’, in a stunning suit, a look of complete love on his face as he takes Tina’s hand tenderly. And Newt’s heart smashes on the floor as he watches her get married to another man, and promises to love him forever. And It’s all his fault. He knows it.

Gloomily Newt clicks open his case. 

Tina’s photograph waves up at him, greeting him cheerfully. She’s back in her normal frame, though the Love Bug has clearly made its home on her shoulder. Normally this would’ve caused him to smile stupidly, revealing in her face, her smile, and Newt would’ve melted like jam on hot toast. However, it’s as if a shard of glass has entered his heart, and instead he merely stares at her, emotionless.

“Why Tina?” he asks her quietly, his soft words echoing round his workspace, “why aren’t you writing to me?”

Tina’s smile droops, her happy expression narrowing into a confused one. 

“It’s been two months,” Newt confesses, and Tina’s mouth falls open in shock. 

“Even if you’ve finally found me annoying, or become upset with me,” he mumbles, as she frantically shakes her head, her eyes wide and terrified, “perhaps even moved on... why can't you tell me?” 

Nervous tears dripple down Newt’s nose, and he wrings his hands hopelessly. 

“I just want to know if you’re okay Tina,” he whispers, bottom lip wobbling against his teeth, “that’s all please,” 

Her face has turned pale; he can tell even though the photo’s black and white. Bright tears drip down her cheeks, and Newt’s wracked with pain at seeing her unhappy. He’s made her unhappy. No wonder she’s not talking to him.

“I just,” Newt croaks, trying to keep his grief unsuccessfully out of his voice, “I’ve come to care for you a great deal…you see,” 

The word ‘darling’ sticks in his throat. He’s too much of a coward to even tell this photograph one of the nicknames he’s come to christen her. He should’ve told her in his letters. Made his intentions clear. All they’d really done, is change their signing off to ‘Yours’ instead of 'From'. Newt had so many drafts that would’ve let her know, would’ve made a difference…

Tina raises a shaky hand and presses it against her frame. He can see ever line in her palm, a small scratch on her thumb. She looks so real, so close, so alive. Yet when Newt presses his own hand up to meet hers, all he touches is the firm back of his case. He strokes his fingers down the fabric inside, awash with loneliness. 

“Why did you even agree to write to me in the first place?” he cries in a sudden rush of frustration. Anger at her for making him feel this way. For giving him a flash of hope, only to rip it away. 

Tina tucks her hair behind her ears, a nervous habit, swallowing gently. Eventually she mouths, ‘I like you,’, her soft mouth moving astutely, making sure her words are easily read. 

Newt chokes on a bubble of laughter. Cold mirth that bursts out of him sardonically. He runs a clammy hand over his forehead harshly. 

“But you don’t!” he cries out, his tears now falling thick and fast, obscuring her from view, “If you did you wouldn’t have stopped, you wouldn’t have left me alone!” 

Tina’s bottom lip wobbles and she looks down, blinking furiously. Even upset she still looks beautiful. She’s his candle in the dark, fire on dark water, Newt’s salamander. But she’s abandoned him. 

“You cracked my heart open, Tina,” Newt shouts, not caring what he must look like. The crazy magizoologist screaming at his case. His heart is breaking again, and while he doesn’t want it to, he can no longer find the strength to hold it together. 

“You cracked open my heart, and I let you in, but now you’ve disappeared,” his voice is breaking, alighting his entire basement. The normal snuffling’s and calls have dulled, leaving only his voice to fill the cavernous space, “I want you, I want you so much, please come back, please Tina, please,” 

Photo Tina is babbling incomprehensively, her tears falling down her cheeks like a waterfall and crashing onto her shirt. The love bug is kissing her neck lightly in clear comfort. She’s trying to convince him, beg him, he can tell, her glassy eyes stare up at his imploringly. Somehow it’s this, more than anything, that ruins the façade. He and Tina are the same height, he could look her straight in the eye without any strain, could’ve kissed her without a worry. Newt shakes his head, feeling a strange sort of aversion. 

“Why are you here?” he spits down at her fiercely, “why are you even here? She’s gone, you’re not her, you’re not real!”

Tina bows her head, shrugging her shoulders weakly. Newt leans his hands on his bench, his heart wrung out. Empty. 

“Leave. Go, Please,” he whispers, shutting his eyes making the world go black, “I don’t want to see you anymore,”

He stands there for a second, a minute and hour, his loud sniffs the only sound to touch the air. Newt stands there until his tears stop, until his mind clears, until nervous fingers encircle his wrist, their touch feather light. He clenches his eyes tight, imaging just for a moment that it’s her, Tina, come to see him, to explain. Or even better that she’s already done so, and that there was a perfectly innocent explanation, and that she too feels the same way about him. That she’s come down stairs with two cups of tea and is about to press her head into his shoulder, her lovely lips indenting his skin. 

But then the strangers foot swings forward. Their toe catching one of the tips of his socks, causing a burst of pain to scrape down his ankle, breaking the spell. 

“Oh, I’m sorry Newt,” a frantic voice stutters. It’s Bunty. 

He inclines his head, not yet wanting to turn around, not yet wanting to speak. Newt has a terrible suspicion his eyes would be red rimmed; they already feel hot and itchy. He knows his voice will be rough, like sandpaper across his vocal cords. 

Newt forces himself to open his eyes, and they come apart with a clug. Tina’s frame is empty. Her soulful eyes missing, her sweet smile gone. He swallows his misery with pain. Slowly he raises his hand, stroking the empty space gently. The feeling of mere touch on paper jolts him to his core. It’s like she’s truly gone, real her. Lost to him forever. Newt shudders, his shoulders caving in, like a boulder has been placed on his shoulders. 

Bunty’s fingers tighten around his skin, almost causing his bones to crack. 

“She doesn’t deserve you,” she whispers quietly, her voice slithering over him like a snake in the grass.

Newt shakes his head, blinking back traitorous tears. 

“I made a mistake,” he says thickly, “I insulted her, everything she stands for, her job is her life,” 

“She shouldn’t have stopped writing,” Bunty moves her hand upwards, caressing his forearm, “If I was her, I would’ve never let you go,” 

Newt slowly spins, his back bouncing lightly against his workbench. His assistant, stares up at him, her eyes wide and earnest. Bunty, slowly moves closer her old apron brushing against his knees. He can’t help but tense up, like a clock beginning to go rusty, as her hand moves to shoulder, then up to his cheek. 

“You’re just so wonderful, kind, caring, generous,” she says, her thumb brushing over his cheek bone, “Newt, you’re perfect,” 

‘Yes’ Newt thinks darkly, trying to lean away from her touch, ‘just like I thought Leta was,’. No one is perfect, it’s dangerous to think so. Tina wouldn’t say so, not about him, probably not about anyone. She always says things as they are, or at least she tries to, Newt can’t help but chuckle under his breath. Tina would say that she dislikes the way he breaks the rules, dislikes that he doesn't take sides. That he never looks people in the eye. And Tina, Merlin, she isn’t perfection. She’s far too loyal at times, refusing to see what was clearly a terrible government and following them to a fault. She’s got a terrible temper, and she loves an argument more than Newt thinks is strictly necessary.

However, it’s all of that, everything that makes her, her. Tina, Tina. Her incredible loyalty that makes her pure love of creatures so endearing to him, that he knows without question that she’d do anything for them. Her temper which comes from a place of intense passion, for her work and caring for others, which he also shares and admires deeply. Her argumentative nature…well he could probably do without it, but Merlin he loves her for it anyway. Loves… Newt pauses his escape from his assistant’s arms, as the thought hits him like a lighting shock. Loves. He loves her. 

“Oh Newt,” Bunty says rising up on her toes and brushing her lips to his. 

Her lips are shaky and slightly sticky. She must have put some sort of lip-gloss on beforehand. Newt pushes her away frantically, trying step back further but prevented by the bulk of the table. Bunty’s face is a bright red colour, and she’s staring wretchedly at her shoes as if they are the most interesting thing in the world. 

“I love her,” Newt tells her simply. 

A small sad squeak of protest falls out of her mouth.

“But, but,” Bunty splutters, her eyes wide and puzzled, “she’s left you,” 

Newt shrugs hopelessly.

“And I love her regardless,” he smiles softly. 

Bunty swings back and forwards on her toes, her face twisting in clear discomfort. She twists her fingers together, to what must be the point of pain. 

“Well then,” she finally says, her voice tremendous, “I think I’d better hand in my registration,” and she turns and quickly runs up the stairs, her pair of buns bouncing. 

“Bunty!” Newt cries out, upset, “wait!” and races after her. 

He catches up to her, just as she’s stumbling down the front steps. Bunty falls on her face, and the loud splash that hits his ears, suggests that she fell into a puddle. Newt attempts to help her up, but she desperately pushes him away, and he’s left to bob awkwardly as his dripping assistant stands up, her back to him. She seems to be brushing herself off, as leaves, muck and a strangely a letter falls to the ground. Newt watches as Bunty bends to pick the mysterious note up.

“Bunty please don’t go,” he begs to crouched form, “you’re my friend,” 

His assistant slowly turns, her nose stuck in the unfolded paper. Newt can see the places the ink has bled, melting into the creamy paper. There’s a smudge of mud where the person would’ve written his address and from this distance he can’t make out the writing. Although he can guess. 

“Is that from Achilles’ Tolliver?” Newt sighs wretchedly, not surprised the clearly devoted fiancé would try one last time to save his beloved.

Bunty’s eyes are running quickly over the paper, her hands shaking so violently it’s making the paper tremble. It’s clear she doesn’t like what she sees.

“Bunty?” Newt asks, concerned, taking a tentative step towards her. 

She’s biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. Then, suddenly, as if coming to a quick decision, her face becoming uncharacteristically steely, she stashes the letter inside of her robes and out of his sight. 

“It was from Achilles’, yes,” Bunty agrees faintly, she gaze somewhere near his shoulder. 

“So,” Newt asks cautiously, with hope in his heart, “will you stay?” 

Bunty smiles weakly, refusing to meet his eyes. There’s a blob of mud on her forehead which slides down her nose and landing with a pathetic 'plop' on the pavement. 

“Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow, Newt,” she presses her hands into her pockets and walks away leaving him standing alone in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!  
> Don't worry next chapter everything is going to come to ahead, with the arrival of some familiar faces.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is that knocking on the door, interrupting Newt's hangover?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Back again, so glad everyone liked the last one. In this chapter, I think most questions get answered (hopefully!)  
> I hope everyone enjoys it!

Dear Queenie Goldstein, 

It is with the deepest sorrow and greatest empathy, that I inform you about the imminent death of you sister, Miss Porpentina Goldstein. 

Unfortunately, during an important raid, for both MACUSA and the Ministry of Magic, Miss Goldstein was taken ill, and illness that despite our best efforts is irrevocable. 

I understand this news must come as a terrible shock and cause great heartbreak. But be safe in the knowledge that your sister’s loyalty and sense of duty will never be forgotten, as she fought on the side of good against the side of evil. 

God be with you,

Theseus Scamander  
Head auror  
Ministry of magic, London. 

21st July, 1927

Bang, bang, bang!

Newt jumps awake, his neck sore from being bent in place for so long. He’d had far too much whiskey last night, glass after glass of the smooth amber liquid. Trying to drown both his sorrows of his lost love and his assistant’s apparent affections for him. Squeezing his eyes tight, Newt rolls over on the couch, the place where he eventually stumbled and stayed, attempting to avoid the offensive morning light. 

Bang, bang, bang!

He groans, throwing a threadbare pillow over his head. Who on earth is calling at this hour of the morning? What could be so important that someone has to interrupt his hangover? 

“Newt, pal, you in there?” a familiar voice rings out, slightly muffled through the bulk of Newt’s front door. 

Stunned, Newt jumps off the couch, ignoring his pounding head and queasy stomach. Wobbling like a baby giraffe taking its first steps, he totters towards the constant knocking. Throwing open his door, he’s immediately met with an unbelievable sight. A grim faced Jacob who is almost holding up a sobbing Queenie, who is leant up against him.

“Thank goodness, I was beginning to give up hope,” Newt blinks in astonishment down at Jacob who offers him a grim smile, “it’s nice to see you again, Newt,” the muggles says, while stroking Queenie’s hair softly. 

The younger Goldstein is as dishevelled as Newt has ever seen her. Her usual elaborate dress and stylish high heels have been replaced by a drab grey dress and simple flats. Her golden locks are limp and lank, instead of bouncing round her face, and her nose is bright red and two sizes too big. Jacob looks more familiar, but everything about his dress seems rushed. His top button undone, leaving his tie to swing freely round his neck, complete with mismatched shoes. And there’s a large puddle gracing his shoulder where Queenie has chosen to lay her head. Her tears flow freely, unashamedly and Newt quickly moves forward to embrace her. But it only serves to cause her distressed wails to sing out louder. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks Jacob breathlessly, his arms still around the shuddering young woman, “how are you here?” 

“No time, no time,” Jacob says hurriedly, lines of stress fixed firmly round his mouth, “read this,” and he pushes a note under Newt’s nose, written in the familiar hand of his brother. 

It only takes one read for Newt’s blood to run cold with fear. It’s true then. It’s all true. Tina is engaged to Achilles’ and now on the edge of death. And extraordinary sadness flattens him and Newt stumbles out of Queenie’s arms and finds himself bend over and retching on the pavement.

“Would your brother know where she is?” Jacob asks, stroking his back firmly.

“Yes,” Newt gasps, a long tendril of spit falling from his mouth to the ground, “yes, yes he would, come in, we’ll floo there,”

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and draws his friends into his house, feeling as if a tonne of weight has been crushed on his shoulders, bending him double. Newt bustles around fetching his coat and floo powder as well as penning out a quick note to Bunty, as Jacob and Queenie stare around his barren living room.

“Where’s Leta?” Queenie asks quietly, her voice uncharacteristically small and tepid.

“Home I expect,” Newt replies unthinkingly, struggling to pull his steel coloured coat over his thick pyjamas.

“But, isn’t here home?” Queenie enquires confusedly, wiping her eyes, and seemingly searching for certain feminie signs of life. Newt stares round his home, wincing a little. An empty bottle of whiskey sits on the table and an upturned glass fallen onto the floor, makes his home seem much more like a bachelor residence than usual.

“No, why would you say that?” Newt swiftly lights his fireplace with a simple flick of his wand.

“Because you’re married to her? Expecting a child?” Queenie peeps out, her voice high, her eyes bulging. Newt stares at her incredulously.

“My brother Theseus is married and expecting a child with her,” he explains slowly, as if to a child, “not me,”

“But, but,” Queenie stutters in confusion, “it was everywhere, everyone believed it, and Teenie,” her eyes turn glassy and she bursts once again into tears, hiding her face in Jacob’s jacket.

Newt’s pulse races and he looks between Queenie’s distressed features and Jacob’s shocked face, terrified.

“Tina thought I got married?” he whispers, a cog beginning to turn in his mind. Tina thinks he’s married. ‘But surely she would’ve written, asked if it was true?’ he argues within himself. ‘I don’t know,’ a little voice in her mind answers, ‘how fast did you run away from that dinner party with your tail between your legs, just at the thought of her being engaged?’.

Jacob nod steadily.

“There was a photo in a magazine of you and that woman, coming out of a registry office,” he explains, hugging Queenie to his chest. He grins, a real grin, the first one since Newt’s seen him, “and to think I carved toy horse for your future tyke,” he pats a bulging pocket in his coat jovially.

Newt tries his best not to imagine a now impossible future where a dark haired child, with creamy white skin plays happily with a carved horse, as their doting parents look on. Instead he throws a handful of floo powder into his fireplace, whispering his brothers address, causing the flames to crackle a brilliant green.

“Come on,” he murmurs and hurries the pair into the fire.

\-----------------------------------  
Newt rolls out last into his brothers living room, with a cough and a splutter, wiping soot out of his eyes.

“Brother, you shouldn’t be here,” Theseus sighs tiredly, “and who is this?”

He looks up to find Theseus and Leta standing over the three of them. The married pair is dressed entirely in black, mourners black. The only white is Theseus shirt, just poking out from his black satin waistcoat and fashionable black blazer. Newt rushes to his feet, his bare feet. He’s wearing a blue and yellow stripped Pyjamas and has come without shoes, while his family is dressed to the nines, despite the fact they’re in their own house. Leta smiles at him, but Theseus stares him down. Newt clears this throat awkwardly.

“Theseus, Leta,” he says, waving a hand to the two Americans standing behind him, “Jacob Kowaski and Queenie Goldstein, my friends from New York,”

“Goldstein?” Theseus breaths, “as in the sister of Tina-“

Queenie sniffles and Leta swoops forward to take her into her arms. Newt hears Leta comforting the crying woman, gently explaining the situation and answering Queenie’s wooden questions. Theseus gathers Newt and Jacob whispering intently.

“Achilles’ brought her over last night, said he didn’t want to be alone,” he illuminates the pair, bowing his head in misery, “she’s unconscious, not expected to wake up,”

Newt chokes on air, hugging himself around the chest tightly. His throat feels constricted, he’s not quite sure if he’s breathing. Theseus watches, brows furrowed, as Jacobs wraps him in a hug.

“Can we see her?” the muggle asks Theseus firmly.

“Ah, perhaps only the sister would be appropriate,” the auror begins, but a large whine works its way out of Newt’s throat, like a wounded animal. It fills the room with misery, bouncing off the walls and breaking off his brother’s spiel.

“We’ll all go,” Leta says, casting a look to Theseus, who begrudgingly leads them out of the room.

They process silently, one by one like a line of ants, up the townhouse’s stairs. Newt’s stomach has dropped to his shoes, and it’s all he can do; follow the back of his brother’s head, one step after the other, each one more painful than the last. Finally, they stop in front of a door. And Theseus stalls and Leta takes her place next to him. The others three uncertainly walk pass them, Queenie leading the march, gathering uncertainly around the door frame. It’s only room, Newt knows this. But it’s what’s inside the room makes him pause, instead of pushing through the door as Queenie does leaving it swinging smartly on its hinges.

It’s a small red door, sitting innocently in the wall. Newt watches absently as it swings back and forth, exposing inches of the room to him. It’s light in there, the curtains have been drawn, and yet it’s deathly silent. Anticipation jitters in his blood, yet his feet feel stuck to the floor. Newt hears Theseus clear his throat and the dull sound of Leta kicking him. He knows he must and yet he doesn’t want to. No, it’s more than that. He can’t. A strong, firm hand rests on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do this, pal,” Jacob sighs heavily.

Newt shakes his head decisively, and he forces his legs to unstick themselves. The door makes no sound as he passes through it, and all he’s able to hear is the blood pounding in his ears. The others file in behind him, but he could not tell you where they stood, for all of Newt’s attention is on the person in the bed in the middle of the room.

Tina. Her dark hair splayed out on the pillow. Her hands laying on either side of her, limp on the blankets. Her skin, from her fingers to her eyelids are a shade of lavender. Every now and again, she takes a ragged breath, a deep suck of air which gurgles in her throat. But otherwise Tina is still; apart from the world, already on her way to another.

Sour sick raises up in Newt’s throat, and he swallows it distastefully. He will not break. No when she’s tried so hard. Tina must be one of the last victims left, holding onto life with sheer strength, sheer determination. Newt will stay strong, stay strong for her.

Theseus has one hand wrapped around a teary Leta, who's clutching at her stomach desperately. Queenie has crawled up on the bed beside her, whispering in her ear, secrets only sisters shoulder hear and stroking her hand. Great tears are rolling down her nose and Jacob strokes her back comfortingly, looking incredible grave. Achilles’ has his head in his hands, collapsed on the beside chair across from them. He seems to almost be a statue, frozen in grief. No longer able to watch, only able to wait.

Newt, as though in a dream, crawls up to the bed, sliding his hand along the blankets, neatly tucked around her. Eventually they reach Tina’s hand and he slides their fingers together. They’re cold to the touch. Unnaturally so, as if she’s just been outside on a cold winters day. Newt balances himself precariously on the edge of the bed, and holds her hand up to his heart as if it’s heat could possibly melt it. Tina’s eyes don’t move, they don’t even flicker. Her eyelashes rest comfortably on her cheeks. Newt doesn’t know what he was expecting. Perhaps a hope his touch would change something. A chance that he was going to see her beautiful eyes again. That they’d flicker open, and she’d smile weakly at him. Giving Newt just enough time to tell her, that he loves her. That he’ll never forget her.

“Oh love,” he whispers, hanging his head hopelessly, crushing her hand to her chest. The shiny ring sitting on Tina’s finger bites into his skin.

There’s a creak Achilles’ uncurls himself, standing and stretching his arms up above his head.

Newt creeps closer almost against his will, sneaking glances at Tina’s fiancé making sure he’s not watching. His conscience battles a losing war. ‘She chose him not you, you can’t touch her like this’. Newt shakily brushes her growing bangs out of her eyes. It suits her, this shorter cut, accents her sweet cheeks, highlighting her elegant shoulders. ‘Tina may not love him, but Achilles’ loves her’. He runs two fingers over her neck, electricity running up his nerve endings. Merlin, her skin is soft. ‘You can’t do this, not when he’s just over there,’. Newt leans down, Tina’s hair tickling his neck, his lips almost brushing her ear but not quite.

“I love you,” he whispers gently, a traitorous tear squeezing out of his eye and dripping onto her pillow.

“You should kiss her,” Queenie pipes up, her voice thick and wet.

He turns his head, staring derisively at the blonde. Her eyes are wide with hope, her knuckles white where they clutch at Tina’s hand.

“No,” Newt scoffs, pulling away from the sister in aversion, though making sure his hand is still clamped in Tina’s.

“It’s perfect, don’t you see?” Queenie ignores him, her voice practically vibrating with eagerness, “she loves you, I’m sure she does. You love her, she’ll wake up!”

He bites down on his tongue, looking nervously around. Achilles’ is wrapped up in a solemn conversation with Theseus, thankfully facing away from the bed. Newt looks down. The ring that graces Tina’s finger is a bright silver and covered with a cluster of diamonds. They sparkle and shimmer in the morning sun, exhibiting riches and power and prosperity. It’s not her, it’s not her at all. But, Newt clashes his teeth together, Tina choose it. She said yes. She chose Achilles’ over him. Queenie lets out a demented groan, burying her face into Jacob’s side.

“Only because she thought you got married, and decided to have a child,” she explodes, the sound echoing around the room, “Tina thought you never cared about her at all! But you did, you do!”

Newt can feel Achilles’ hot gaze crawl up his back, and he shudders nervously, highly expecting hex or even a hit on the head.

“Honey, she loves you!” Queenie begs him desperately, “please, please, please kiss her,”

“No,” he refuses stubbornly, trying his best not to sound like a petulant child, “I’m not going to, she’s engaged,"

He turns to Achilles’ and apology on his lips. But to his surprise, instead of a deep rage he expected to find etched on his face, the American’s features are only of sad contemplation. He shrugs, a movement of clear defeat.

“You should do it,” Achilles’ says quietly, his voice like a dull knife, “I want her to live,”

Newt’s mouth falls open in shock as slowly his friends echo in agreement.

“You could save this woman’s life, Newt,” Theseus says sternly.

“You should at least try,” Leta sniffs, smiling softly “who couldn’t love you?”

“Pal, she’s crazy about you,” Jacob grinning reminiscently, “Anyone could see it,”

Tina takes another wet breath, desperately sucking air in. Her chest heaves and she coughs. A hint of blood stains her tips. Newt wipes it away gently with his thumb. How easy would it be just to lean down and kiss her gently? But what if it doesn’t work? Anxious thoughts swim round his brain. What if she doesn’t wake? Will his last memory of Tina be her cold lips pressed on his? Or even worse will she wake, thank him profusely, but then throw her arms around her fiancé's neck, leaving him on the bed alone. ‘Don’t be so selfish Newt’ he hisses at himself, alight with self-hatred, ‘Tina would be alive and that’s all that matters’. And yet he still can’t bring himself to lean down, her sweet lips remain unknown to his own.

“No, don’t make me,” he stutters, pleading round at them all, trying his best not to feel their fruitlessness and distain, “I can’t, please,”

“Newt?” a new voice calls from the doorway. It’s Bunty. Her face a ghostly pale, her hair full of ash.

“Bunty?” Newt croaks out, “what are you doing here?”

His assistant tentatively makes her way towards him, her gaze determinedly fixed on the ground. She’s twirling a letter between her fingers. The various splodges of mud that adhere to the parchment cause Newt to hypothesis that it’s the one she fell on in front of his house last night.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her bottom lip wobbling, passing him the note between trembling fingers. Newt can’t help but notice her nails have been bitten down to the quick.

“What is this?” he asks in puzzlement, ignoring Queenies outraged gasp. Bunty sways nervously in a small concise circle.

“I told you yesterday the letter was from that ‘Achilles’’ person,” she says tremendously. It’s clearly costing her to say these words.

“But it wasn’t, it was from her,” Bunty confesses, pointing a shaky finger at Tina’s dying form, “I’m so sorry Newt,”

The angry exclamations of the others fall dull on Newt’s ears. Ignoring his indignant fellows and a sobbing Bunty, he unfolds the letter reverently, letting himself fall into the scribbles of the woman lying beside him.

Dearest Newt,

I’m sorry that this is a letter you have to read, and I fully expect you to destroy this. But I have to say this, have to tell you. I love you. I, Tina Goldstein, love you, Newt Scamander.

I’m sorry. I know you are happily married, I know you are expecting a child and probably will detest my affections. But I cannot help it. I have tried desperately to forget you, your kindness, your compassion, your complete love of your creatures, which I have grown to share... But it’s impossible despite my best efforts. And I love you.

I’m afraid that’s why I stopped writing to you, as I’m sure that must have confused you. After I heard the news about your marriage to Leta, I felt you’d both be better without a friend that loved you so completely. It could only bring awkwardness for you and heartbreak for me.

You will probably be wondering, then why, now, I am deciding to write to you. It’s because, well, I’m dying Newt. From the bite of the Love Bug, which I’m sure your extremely well informed about. Achilles’ has tried his best, and I care for him, I do. But you’ve taken up my heart and there’s no room to spare.

I’m scared Newt. I’m trying to be brave, but Mercy Lewis I’m terrified. I’m hauled up in this bed and slowly drowning I can feel it. The thick water on my lungs. I’m not even strong enough to write, I’m using a spell to pen this letter out to you. Death, it turns out is a long and painful process. I’m glad that I’ve been asleep for a lot of it.  
I’m not expecting anything from you, not a visit and certainly not a return of feelings. But as Queenie is refusing to write to me, I find I have no one else but you, no one else who will read my pathetic notes.

I hope with all my heart you have a wonderful life Newt. Love your wife, love your children, love your creatures. But please, just remember me and remember that I loved you till my last breath.

Love, your Tina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? The next chapter will be adorable, don't worry!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina's at sea. The waves wash her over to her parents. Over to Newt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> I'm so glad everyone liked the last chapter. This one is happier don't worry!   
> Unfortunately though, I don't think the next chapter will come as quickly. I've just started Uni again, so everything might take a little longer. But don't worry, I will finish this fic and I have some more ideas lined up.  
> Anyway, hope everyone likes this chapter!

The waves washes over her, gently and without contention. Tina shuts her eyes, willingly letting the tide draw her out to sea. It’s going to be nice over the water; not full of mistakes and lost opportunities. No, across the sea lies her father’s eyes, her mother’s smile, ready to welcome her with open arms. Tina smiles, and floats happily towards them; not exactly content, but happy.

She’s so close now. Tina washes up against the sand, it’s grains brushing her back, and she could almost touch them, her parents. The pair of them. The three of them? Suddenly, out of the salty sea mist, there appears a third being. One with ruddy hair and a smattering of freckles. Newt. He’s here too? Not dead surely. But a figment of memory? Perhaps the afterlife lets you hang on to the ones you most care about. Perhaps Queenie will show up to, maybe even Jacob and Credence. 

Newt reaches out to her and Tina trembles with anticipation as he cups her face delicately. She never let Achilles’ kiss her, despite their engagement. She didn’t want smooth hands, a structured jaw, confident eyes. No, she wanted what is right in front of her now. A grassy gaze, high cheekbones, and fingertips that scratch her cheeks deliciously. 

Tina wets her lips as he leans in, readying herself for his kiss, her nerves bouncing with delight. In life she lost him. But in death, maybe, just maybe, she’ll be able to have him. 

His lips are soft, gentle, and taste vaguely of whisky. Tina sighs, wrapping her arms around Newt's head, and burying her fingers in his hair. She pulls lightly at the strands, almost petting the back of his neck. Was his hair cut this short the last time she saw him? 

One accidental hard tug causes him to moan, opening his mouth for her to gleefully explore. Newt responds passionately to her enthusiasm, his tongue swiping almost sinfully across the top of her mouth. Tina tugs at his clothes, a bouncing cotton, pulling him closer, and he almost falls on top of her. One of his hands moves down to caress her neck, nails scratching below his collar.

“All right you two, that’s enough,” a voice snaps testily through their embrace. 

Tina pauses, her teeth stilling on Newt’s lip. The waves have gone, replaced instead with a sea of blankets. Someone is crying pathetically, someone else is giggling, a familiar giggle. One that reminds her of twin beds and strudel.   
She blinks open her eyes and the world explodes to life around Tina like a Christmas cracker. 

Morning sun is streaming in through some curtains flapping lightly in a breeze. A clutch of people seem to be surrounding her bed, she can feel their presences like she feels the sun warming her skin. However, all Tina really sees is a pair of golden green eyes obscuring her vision. Slowly she tucks her teeth back inside her mouth again. Newt leans back, his gaze soft but anxious, and somewhere near her chin. There’s a small dab of blood on his bottom lip, where she must have taken hold. Awkwardly she reaches up to swipe it away. 

“You’ve got something,” she mumbles quietly. His eyes meet hers again, darkening visibly, the pools of green disappearing into black, as she presses her thumb lightly to his lip. A thumb which is white. 

Taking a shaky breath, Tina examines her hand. As is her palm and her wrist; pale and clear. Not that horrible purple that slowly, but surely climbed her skin, no matter how much she swore at it. 

“Oh,” Tina gasps, and her lungs fill up completely with delicious air. No gurgle, no effort. It’s so easy she almost forgets she’s doing it. 

A sneaky tear slips down her cheek and she smiles helplessly, her cheeks pulling painfully. She’s cured. Newt smiles as well, toothily, and he leans down, pressing his nose against her cheek and nuzzling softly. 

“Love,” he whispers, as she cries happily, pulling him closer desperately, his buttons grazing her bed clothes. 

Another person presses their head against her, and Tina feels their tears fall in tiny droplets her arm. 

“Oh Teenie,” they cry and Tina blinks her way incredulously. Blonde curls have bend themselves over her blankets, defeated. 

“Queenie?” she croaks. 

“Oh Tina, I’m so sorry,” she trembles. Tina shuffles out of Newt’s arms, to place them around her sister. 

“You almost died,” Queenie sobs, as Tina rocks her in a motherly manner, like she did when they were little, “You almost died, and I hadn’t talked to you in months,” 

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Tina holds her baby sister tight enough to break, settling her head on her shoulder. 

“It’s good to see you, Tina,” An deep voice says above her. Blinking upwards she finds a wet faced Jacob smiling down at her. Swallowing thickly, she smiles shakily back.

“And you,” Tina admits honestly, despite her warring conscience. England is a different beast to America, Queenie and Jacob can love freely here. But if someone from home finds out…She fights her fears, smiling stronger as the no-maj gives her a small salute. 

Two fingers, as light as breath, trail down her back causing her to shiver. They slip under her shirt, and trace elaborate patterns over her skin that set her nerves alight. Jacob raises a knowing eyebrow and pulls Queenie out of her grip, whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle. Tina is too distracted by short nails running along her spine to ask what the joke is. 

She twists round to find a pink faced Newt, whose fingers linger, sliding round to sit on her stomach. Her pyjama shirt rises up, and Tina’s breath gets caught in her throat, as he studies her skin with intense concentration. 

"Clear," Newt says wondrously, eyes wide and elated, "all clear," clearly satisfied, he then continues his ministrations.

Starting from her bellybutton he traces a small whirlpool on her skin, small circles that get larger and larger, causing Tina’s stomach to drop to her toes. A high whine falls out of her throat as his fingers accidentally skim her waistband and Newt grins wildly, cupping her cheek. ‘Yes’, Tina thinks dreamily, her eyelids flickering shut. Wait, no. Leta. Baby. Mercy Lewis, she’s a terrible person. 

Quickly Tina grabs his hand and pushes him away.

“Newt,” she hisses, trying not to notice his hurt features, “you’re married, what are you doing?” 

“You got better, you got bitten, I kissed you, and you got better,” Newt stutters, trying desperately to reach out to her again. Tina scrambles backwards, the back of her head knocking against the bed. 

‘He must’ve read my letter and come to save me,’ she thinks tearily, clutching her hands to her chest. ‘He’s such a kind person, he wasn’t going to let me die, but now he’s got to go back, back to his wife and their unborn child,’. The finger where Achilles’ ring lies feels strangely heavy, bulky and uncomfortable. Tina stares down at it determinedly. ‘She won’t stop him, she won't, no matter her own feelings’. 

“You’re married,” she cries stubbornly, and Newt hangs his head. 

“No he’s not,” the voice that chastised them for kissing before, pushes in. 

Tina looks over to find a tall, gentleman-like looking man, dressed from head to toe in black, with an arm around a pregnant woman’s waist. Leta Lestrange gives her a tiny nod, a wisp of a smile playing round her mouth. 

“Hi,” Tina squeaks nervously. 

“I’m afraid you have been given the wrong end of the stick, Miss Goldstein,” the man says cheerfully, “It was I, not my brother here who married this beautiful woman,” 

“And knocked me up,” Leta pokes Theseus Scamander in the ribs playfully, and he gives her a loving peck on the forehead. 

Tina watches this exchange with bulging eyes and an open mouth. The ring on her finger begins to feel more like shackles, tying her down, instead of the solution that was supposed to help lift her up. She stutters hopelessly, a hot blush filling her cheeks. Mercy Lewis, she’s buggered this up. Newt was free all this time and she went and promised herself to someone else. A tear sizzles on her cheek, and she wipes it away hastily, refusing to look at anyone. 

“Tina?” Newt asks her tentatively. 

This time, when he leans in she doesn't move, in fact she moves closer. He plays gently with a piece of her fringe, and a sharp breath sizzles between her lips. 

“Your letter,” he says quietly. His fringe falling across his eyes, “did you…did you mean it?” 

She chokes on a laugh and a sob, both getting caught up in her throat. 

“I’ve never meant anything more,” Tina replies honestly. And it’s true. 

She’s never loved anyone else before, so she wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to feel like, not at first. Her stomach swooping every time she saw a red hair employee. Her heart pattering anxiety every time a letter was just a few days late. But that could’ve just been simple crush symptoms. Or at least that’s what she told herself. It wasn’t till she’d cried herself to sleep for a month, going to work every morning with crunchy eyes and a terrible temper. Until she began to imagine reading fairy tales to ginger head children, who buried themselves into her side giggling. Until she got engaged, and instead of feeling unimaginable happiness, she felt a strange sense of dread, which sunk into her bones despite her best attempts to ignore it. Until she realised the last person she wanted to see before she left the world was him. 

She takes his hand in hers, running her thumb over his skin lovingly. Newt’s hand is rough, scratchy. There’s a new scar on the inside of wrist. Tina leans down and kisses it softly. 

“I Love you,” she whispers, her lips brushing his skin. 

Newt leans down, and kisses the top of her head. 

“I love you too,” he says softly, and she smiles wetly, uncontrollably. 

They look up at each other, completely enamoured. Tina can’t stop smiling. Newt peppers her face with kisses, obsessively catching every inch of skin. 

“I love you,” she repeats, “Newt, love you, so much,” 

“Yes, love you,” he says between kisses, “Tina, love,” 

Tina catches him coming to kiss her cheek, and instead meets him in the middle, and they kiss slowly, delicately. It feels like coming home. He still tastes like whisky. 

“Did you get drunk last night, Mr Scamander?” she asks him teasingly. 

“Maybe,” he ducks his head bashfully, “but only because…” Newt runs a shaky finger over her extravagant ring. 

“Achilles’,” Tina whispers, sudden horror overwhelming her, “where is he?” 

She looks desperately round the room. Queenie hides her head in Jacobs shirt, and the no-maj swallows uncomfortably. Leta is refusing to meet her eyes. Only Theseus clears his throat. 

“Downstairs, I don’t think he could stand seeing your kiss,” he rocks backwards and forwards on his toes uncomfortably, “that red-headed girl went with him,” 

Tina presses her forehead into Newt’s, hard, and bites her lip strong enough to break. Shit. 

“I have to go talk to him,” she whispers, and he nods, kissing her forehead gently. 

“I know,” he smiles sadly, although she can’t help but notice the happiness filling his eyes. Tina can’t help but notice, because she feels it herself. She’s about to break a man’s heart; but Newt loves her, and she loves him. Her happiness fills her like a balloon, expanding in her chest. She feels like she could fly. 

Slowly Tina loosens the ring around her finger, easing its way off her skin. It hasn’t even made an imprint, hasn’t been there long enough. She always hated it. The diamonds were as big as baubles, and got in the way with her wand work. Plus, the silver doesn’t match her mother’s necklace. But the man who gave it to her loves her. And she’s going to break his heart. Tina clenches the metal in her fist, feeling the sharp edges of the diamonds digging into her skin. 

Newt takes her hand, and presses his lips to the empty finger. A silent sorry. A silent promise. When he finally let’s go, there’s a note emended in her clenched fingers. 

My darling Tina,

I'm so, so sorry. Breakfast at mine after? 

Love Newt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone liked it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt prepares a surprise for his Tina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I'm so glad everyone liked the last chapter. This one is filled with more Newt and Tina cuteness, and I hope everyone enjoys it!

There’s a creak and Newt hastily finishes up the last of his preparations. Making sure that everything is in place (and that there’s no accidentally placed gold or silver for the niffler’s to pounce on), he quickly scampers up the steps.   
Tina stands in an intricate white dress, covered in delicate lace. It falls to just above her knees, showing far too much leg for his brain to process, and it hangs slightly loose around the bust. But she looks beautiful, despite her sheepish expression and red eyes. She always looks beautiful. 

“Leta,” she says awkwardly, giving the skirt a tentative tug, “she said I couldn’t go out to breakfast without being properly dressed,” 

Newt nods as if this makes perfect sense to him. Tina also seems bemused, making her way down to him like a foal taking its first steps. 

“It’s a bit short,” she says wincing, crossing her arms over her chest self-consciously. 

He can tell she’s uncomfortable, but every sentence he forms in his mind to comfort her, falls short. ‘You look like an Antipodean Opaleye egg,’ or ‘are your feet as creamy as your thighs?’ or ‘perhaps, next time, Leta could lend you something a bit shorter?’, don’t seem to be something Newt wants to blurt out. Or at least not right now. Instead he plucks up the courage to clumsily peck her on the cheek. Tina beams at him, toothily, like a child gifted an ice-cream. Newt puffs up his chest, safe in the knowledge, that for once, he’s made a correct social decision. 

“Come on,” he holds out a hand to her, and she takes it. Both of their hands are slightly sweaty and they slide together uncomfortably. But both refuse to let go. 

Proudly, Newt leads her deeper into his abode and Tina gazes around in uninhibited wonder, giving each curious creature a tiny smile, and small wave.

“Newt, this is incredible,” she breathes, tightening her grip on his hand. 

“It’s not really, just a few extension charms, and climate fixes,” he bobs his head bashfully, as one of the Snallyghasters, Ernie, gives a particularly loud screech, “the neighbours hate me,” 

Tina chuckles at his unconcerned tone, and he grins. He’s never actually met the fifteen various couples and collectives that have flanked his home in the last few years. To tell the truth he never really wants to, encase he ends up at the wrong end of a bat-bogey hex. 

“You need a place in the country,” Tina shoves him gently, as Newt’s smile refuses to fade. He quickly shakes off humorous memories about various howlers he’s come home to, “somewhere far away, where everyone can roam,” she trails off, waving a vague hand around at his beasts. 

“Yes, I’ve actually thought about that,” Newt muses.

And he has. His parents have a small cottage on the coast, a perfect retreat for a second son, unlike the gentry mansion meant for Theseus. He’s visited a few times; measured the walls, checked the distance of the nearest muggle residence. The sea air renovates him, and Dougal loves standing on the edge of the cliffs, the breeze blowing through his hair. However, all the empty rooms haunted Newt. The extra bedrooms, the large open kitchen, and expansive dining table. That house expected a family. And although his creatures would always be family to him, Newt couldn’t help to smell the scent of expectations when he stayed there. As if his bachelor existence was letting it down. 

“I just,” he finally says softly after a stretch of silence, “I wouldn’t want to move alone,” he gives her hand a nervous squeeze. 

Tina rests her head on his shoulder and her lips brush his shirt lightly. Newt smiles, blinking stray tears away from his eyes. Her cheeks are tinged a sweet pink, but she looks determinedly up at him, nodding slightly. Nothing needs to be said. 

Eventually, Audrey the Augurey, squawks loudly, greeting Tina with a small bop on the head. Giggling nervously, she awkwardly tries to bop her back, but misses by a wing length. Newt’s heart swells in his chest, and he presses his nose into her forehead. 

“Breakfast?” he hums in her ear. 

“Yes, sounds good,” Tina whispers back, smiling shyly. 

“I have something set up,” Newt drags her along to a enclosure covered by curtain of vines, which he easily parts and helps her though, “it’s not much, but,”

“Oh Newt,” Tina gasps, her eyes widening with disbelieving joy, “you didn’t have to do all this,”

Newt rubs the back of his head, delighted at her open happiness, staring round proudly at his achievement. 

Dark grass mats the earth and tall oaks reach to the sky, casting mysterious shadows on the ground. Tiny toad stools and wildflowers decorate the floor, making a path to a small grove where a small table bedded in moss sits. Newt watches adoringly as Tina stumbles forward into the old Erkling enclosure, examining bark and inspecting wild flowers. She keeps smiling, every pore in her body exploding with happiness. He leans back against a trunk, watching as she finds new surprises with small exclamations. The lanterns he’s hung from the branches, the haphazard way he’s tried to fold napkins into kelpies, placed carefully on creamy plates. The book settled into the middle of the table. Tina runs a gentle finger over the golden lettering; Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. 

“I bought it you know,” she picks it up, almost caressing it’s spine, “it arrived on American shelves about the same time the article did, about your ‘marriage’” 

Newt pushes off the oak, and wanders towards her. Tina’s staring down at the book reverently, turning the pages over her fingers. 

“Why did you buy it?” he asks, truly puzzled, “if you thought I’d married someone else?” 

Tina shrugs defeatedly, shooting him a small, sad smile. 

“I told myself not to,” she admits slowly and Newt swallows deeply, avoiding her gaze, trying not to feel the dark disappointment that digs at his gut. To find that she didn’t buy it out of missing him or loving him, but instead out of a raging conscience. 

A shaky hand cups his cheek, and Newt looks up to find Tina’s glassy eyes pulling him into her. Her magical eyes. Fire on dark water. 

“I bought it because I had to,” Tina says, touching her nose to his softly, and Newt keens, “because I had to hear your voice, have some part of you, even though I thought we’d never meet again,” 

A loud sniff breaks the air that could’ve come from either of them.

“I cut that picture of you, the one you sent me,” Newt admits, his voice as soft as breath, as soft as a wind fluttering through a breeze, “I talked to you, the picture of you that is, about, well, about everything really,” 

Newt tucks a piece of Tina’s hair behind her ear and she trembles. 

“It was like you were here,” he mumbles, caressing the space behind her ear, entranced at her wobbling bottom lip, “here with me,”

Tina presses closer, her nose brushing against her his cheek, her hand moving back to grasp at his hair. Newt loves it. The way her fingers drag his ruddy strands to breaking point. It’s beast-like the way she grabs at him, and it makes the creature hidden inside of Newt's chest growl. He fights he urge to nip at her skin, showing his creatures that she is his, and he is hers. Newt resists, just, but his breath comes out hot and fast, and Tina’s lips brush over his own gently. 

“I love you,” she whispers, and he kisses her. 

His book gets crushed between their torsos and eventually falls on the floor, blissfully forgotten by both witch and wizard who were too busy attempting to share each other’s skin. Tina is rather inexperienced, Newt can tell. Her mouth is over eager, her movements jerky, but she’s passionate and he can taste it. He sits tremendously on one chair, and pulls her into his lap, ignoring how it’s leg wobbles. Both of Tina’s hands bury themselves in his curls, and Newt wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against him. Together they rotate between sweet and wanton. Innocent kiss and murmurs of adoration mixed with clashing teeth and strained seams of clothing. 

Tina breaks away first, her lips an angry red. She collapses into Newt’s neck, and he presses a loving kiss on the top of her head. 

“You’re like a dragon,” he says into her hair. 

“How?” Tina asks faintly, almost sleepily, and he holds her closer. 

“You’re passionate, strong, loyal, ready to protect your charges at any cost,“ Newt whispers into her neck, and she smiles. He can feel her teeth on his shoulder. 

“Except I don’t blow fire,” she replies amused. 

“No,” Newt agrees, “But your full of it,” 

Tina leans back in his arms, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and he cups her face, stroking her cheeks, his thumbs brushing her nose. Her eyes flutter shut, and he smiles. 

“You’re like ashes,” Newt explains lovingly, leaning in to kiss her shoulder, “you seem cold and innocent, but inside Tina, inside you’re full of fire,” 

She opens her eyes in astonishment, and he kisses her once, twice gently. 

“A dragon ready to give heat to those who need it, and burn those that deserve it,” Newt says softly and Tina bites her lip, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. ‘My modest Tina,’ he thinks dotingly, nuzzling her neck for a moment. Then Newt bites down gently; just enough to bruise the skin but not enough to break it. 

“Newt!” Tina exclaims, pulling him up harshly, eyes burning. He grins with triumph. 

“There,” Newt says, touching the corner of her eye with his thumb, “in your eyes, tiny pools of fire,” 

Tina’s expression softens and she too leans in to kiss her sweetly.

“If I’m a dragon,” she says, pecking his cheek, “then I’m your dragon, a dragon only because of you,” 

Newt imagines wings bursting out from her shoulders, a tail uncurling from her spine. Her fire may scare some, most in fact. But not he. Newt has gained the dragons trust; he wants to withstand her burn. And Tina wants him too, he can see it, as clear as if smoke were unfurling from her nostrils.

They’re both in perfect understanding. Before they were circling each other like creatures of prey, stumbling in the darkness. But now they’ve managed to forge themselves together, melded in light. 

“I love you,” Tina nips at his ear playfully, and Newt sighs, relishing in the light burn.

“Love you, too,” he murmurs, calling her back to his mouth. She comes willingly, like a moth to flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think?


End file.
